


Silhouette

by mariana_oconnor



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A lot of people get assassinated, Alternate Universe, Assassin Clint Barton, Assassin Natasha Romanov, Deaf Clint Barton, Identity Porn, M/M, Mentions of past brainwashing, Mission Fic, Natasha Is a Good Bro, SHIELD Agent Bucky Barnes, SHIELD Agent Steve Rogers, Slow Build, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers is a little shit, Torture, WinterHawk Big Bang, epic bromances, very slow build, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:26:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 105,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7956760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/pseuds/mariana_oconnor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a mission in Mexico goes wrong, SHIELD Agents Barnes and Rogers are given the job of hunting down the notorious Hawkeye and the Black Widow, the only problem being: no one even knows what they look like.</p><p>On the other side of the law, Clint's enjoying messing with their new SHIELD shadows, especially seeing how close he can get to Agent Barnes without him realising, but he makes the mistake of getting attached, and that makes everything more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mexico

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic that kept growing. And growing. It was supposed to be short. It was supposed to be simple. It's now a 100k monster, which is why it's not all being posted at once. Because of poor time management, it's still in the beta-ing editing stage, (the wonderful [Sa-kun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sa_kun) is still wrestling with it and is doing an amazing job (thank you so much)) and will be posted in pieces. But it is finished!
> 
> My artist [cratercreator](http://cratercreator.tumblr.com/) has done an incredible piece based on chapter 2 over [here](http://cratercreator.tumblr.com/post/149871990082/this-is-for-the-lovely-mariana-oconnor-for-her), which everyone should go and look at, because it's brilliant. She was wonderful to work with and I'm so happy with how everything turned out.
> 
> And thank you to the organisers for organising this, and dragging me back into fandom. This was so much fun to write. I hope it's fun to read.

The weather is blisteringly hot. Bucky’s shirt is stuck to his back with sweat and the steering wheel is scorching his flesh hand. He’s pretty sure he could fry an egg on the other one, but he’s being careful not to touch it. The thing gets hot enough on its own with all the motors and wires running through it –  the relentless assault of the sun means it’s probably red hot. He can hear the fans inside whirring.

The car’s got no air con. It’s a beat up piece of shit that SHIELD insisted was incognito. Bucky’s pretty sure they just didn’t want to shell out for something made in the 21st century, though. Apparently, when it comes to smuggling people through Central America, a tin can held together by rust and duct tape is the best plan.

Miguel isn’t helping matters either. Sure, he’s on the run from international criminals, but he could stop fidgeting for a few damn seconds. Bucky’s patience has been burned away by the heat, and the unending shuffling and sighing from the passenger seat is almost enough to make him forget that his mission is to keep the idiot alive.

“Oh man, oh man, oh man,” Miguel is whispering to himself, and his hands are tapping against any surface he can reach with no rhythm whatsoever: an insistent _tap-tap taptap tap_ , just loud enough to grate on Bucky’s nerves. “They’re gonna kill me, man. I’m dead. I am deader than dead.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Bucky points out, but it’s no use: Miguel’s beyond hearing him. “They woulda killed you anyway after what happened in Puebla.” It’s not tactful, but if they wanted tact they should have given this mission to a different team. Neither Bucky nor Steve’s good at it. Steve at least manages polite, but Bucky doesn’t see the point in it, not if it’s not going to get him anywhere.

“Oh shit – Puebla,” Miguel moans in Spanish. And maybe Bucky should have tried polite, because it looks like he’s just wound the guy up more. Huh. Maybe, if he winds him up enough, he’ll pass out from stress and Bucky will get a few hours of peace and quiet. “They’re gonna kill me, man.”

Bucky’s gonna kill Steve for wriggling out of this one. Important briefing at the Triskelion, his ass. Here was Bucky thinking they were partners. Steve better buy out the whole damn bar when Bucky gets back. And he’s taking all his drinks with ice.

“ _Agent Barnes_.” Coulson’s voice says through his earpiece. It is as calm and cool as ever.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, grateful for a distraction from Miguel’s whining.

“ _The satellite’s reading a heat signature ahead. It’s one person, not close, but be aware. Two klicks ahead, on your right.”_

“Sure it ain’t another goat?” Bucky asks. The last three heat signatures had been goats.

“ _Most likely, but it’s best to be cautious_.”

“Easy to say in that nice, air-conditioned control room of yours,” he replies, glaring at the road as there’s no way he can glare at Coulson. “It’s fucking 120° out here.”

“ _It’s 98°, Agent Barnes,”_ Coulson replies. He sounds blank, but Bucky knows he’s laughing.

“Maybe outside, but I’m in a greenhouse on wheels.”

“ _Buy yourself an ice cream_.”

“You can buy me a tub when I get back,” Bucky replies. He’s warming up to Coulson. Of all the SHIELD agents they work with, Coulson’s probably the one who comes closest to getting how his mind works. At least he doesn’t look at Bucky like he’s going to snap and kill everyone every five seconds.

“ _You’re coming up on the heat signature. It should be approximately five hundred metres away on your left. Do you see anything?”_

Bucky looks, but there’s no change from the scenery he’s been enjoying for the last three days, not even a goat: brown land, yellow grass, the odd tree and mountains in the distance.

“Nothin’,” he says, letting out a huff as he frowns. Beside him Miguel is still bemoaning his life choices, which Bucky agrees with wholeheartedly. If it weren’t for the deal Miguel made with SHIELD, Bucky would be very much in the camp that thinks the world is better off without Miguel in it. But there is a deal and Bucky’s got a job to do. He turns his attention back to looking for the unknown heat signature instead. Not even any goats this time. Someone in SHIELD ops is fucking with him. “Sure you’re not just lookin’ at a really big bird?”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Coulson says, but Bucky keeps an eye out anyway.

It happens fast, so fast Bucky can barely remember the details later. Miguel’s despair has made his head flop back against the head rest, while Bucky’s sitting up, alert and looking out to the right.

He’s aware of a blur. He blinks, like his eyes are messing up. Then there’s a rush of air behind his neck. It doesn’t feel like a bullet. Something tickles his skin and when he turns to Miguel there’s a fucking arrow sticking out of his throat. His eyes and mouth hang open.

The rust bucket screeches to a halt and Bucky’s ducking for cover instinctively, his foot slamming down.

“Shooter. Shit,” he says to Coulson. “Miguel’s dead. Fucking _arrow_.” He spits the word in disbelief and looks again at the man he was supposed to be protecting, but the arrow’s still there, sticking out of his neck like it’s fucking mocking him, a slow drip of blood oozing down from it. Who uses a fucking arrow?

“ _Arrow?_ ” Coulson asks in his ear, but Bucky doesn’t answer. There are more important things right now.

He’s got a gun in his hand and he’s out the door, starting towards the tree. It’s got to be the tree. Whoever it is has to be in there because there’s nowhere else to hide.

“ _Do not engage!_ ” Coulson calls. His cool is all but gone. Bucky’s never heard him agitated before. “ _Do not engage! I repeat. Agent Barnes, do you copy? I repeat: do not engage._ ”

Like hell. Some fucker with a bow and arrow takes out his man? Bucky’s engaging; he’s gonna shoot the fucker in the head.

“Bastard’s got nowhere to run,” he growls. “I’ve got him.”

“ _Barnes. That was an order_.”

But Bucky only follows the orders he wants to these days, and he’s already running for the tree. He can see a shape in it now, black against the bright sky between the branches. He’s got him and he raises his gun to fire.

An arrow comes flying at him and Bucky deflects it with his left arm, a clang of metal on metal. The next one comes before he can react, though, and it hits him in the neck with all the force of a fast ball. It’s the shock that sends him stumbling, even as he’s reaching up to stop the blood that isn’t coming.

Steve’s never gonna let him live it down if he’s killed by fucking Robin Hood.

Bucky’s vision blurs. His knees buckle. His fingers come away from his neck clean apart from sweat and a slight red smear, but he feels the heaviness of lead in his arm. Sedative. The familiar lassitude drips through him and the world seems to slow.

“ _Barnes. Report!_ ” Coulson’s yelling. He sounds worried. That’s new. Almost like Bucky’s a person, not just an asset. He opens his mouth to make a comment, but his tongue lolls in his mouth and all his words go spinning from his mind like little spiders. He feels himself hit the ground dimly, like a faded dream, mind already drifting away.

*

Bucky wakes up in a private SHIELD medical room. He can tell from the insignia and from the way the nurse looking him over is simultaneously caring and about two seconds away from drawing a gun on him. They watch each other warily for a few minutes until she walks away. She doesn’t run, but Bucky has the distinct impression that she wants to get out of there as quickly as she can.

No one’s watching over his bedside, which he’s grateful for because, when the fog in his brain clears away and he can piece together the last things he remembers, he knows he failed his mission in a quite spectacular manner.

Miguel’s dead and, with him, all the information he had on his former associates. The world won’t grieve his passing, but it’s going to be that much harder to bring the bastards down now.  Bucky hadn’t even managed to get a glance at the guy who did it, beyond a shadowy figure perched in a tree.

He pounds his head back into the pillow with a frustrated groan and assesses his state.

He feels a little groggy, but mostly with it. There’s an IV in his arm and some pain across his left side. He doesn’t remember getting hit and it feels more wide-spread than a bullet wound – an arrow wound, he supposes. Maybe the guy had kicked him while he was down. Bucky really hopes they run into each other again because he’s going to have fun bringing the asshole to his knees.

There’s a whoosh as the door opens to reveal Coulson and the nurse from before. Bucky ignores the pain in his side to drag himself into a sitting position; he’s not comfortable laying down like an invalid in front of his superior. It makes him feel vulnerable, even if he knows a dozen ways to take both of them down without even leaving his bed.

Coulson puts something down on the bedside table and Bucky turns to see a pot of ice cream sitting beside him.

“As promised,” Coulson says, producing a spoon from a pocket.

“Not really hungry,” Bucky tells him. Coulson just shrugs and proceeds to open the tub himself and start eating it.

“From what we can tell, you haven’t suffered any major injuries,” Coulson says. “Whatever he hit you with was a heavy duty sedative, but it doesn’t seem to have any side effects.”

“My side,” Bucky says and Coulson frowns.

“Yes. The way you fell meant your left arm fell across your body,” he explains. Coulson never says ‘metal arm’ or ‘prosthetic,’ always ‘left arm’ without even the slightest hesitation. It’s got to be a calculated move, but Bucky can’t deny that he appreciates it. “The temperature of the metal meant that you have some burns to the skin where it was in contact.”

Bucky grunt and lets the nurse check his eyes, following the soft directions: _look up_ , _look down_.

“You were very lucky,” Coulson says after swallowing another spoonful of ice cream. “I told you not to engage, Agent Barnes. I gave you a specific order and you disobeyed.” He pauses and cocks his head to one side slightly, weighing Bucky up and down.  Bucky doesn’t squirm or look away.  “You want to tell me why you didn’t listen?” Bucky shrugs. “Captain Rogers and I both vouched for you. After what happened in Belarus there were a lot of people who worried you were not suited to this line of work.”

 _Fucking Belarus_. Is that never going to stop coming back to bite him in the ass? Bucky knows it’s more than that, though. He knows the whispers have been following him since Steve brought him in, freshly un-brainwashed and still confused about which way was up.

“Guess I’m on probation again, then,” he says, trying to sound casual about it. He screwed up. The first solo mission since Minsk and he’d well and truly fucked it up.

“Perhaps not,” Coulson says. He nods to the nurse and she leaves with ruthless efficiency, so it’s just the two of them, Coulson eating the ice cream, Bucky staring at the grey walls. SHIELD takes non-descript to new levels.

“Tell me what happened,” Coulson says.

“I didn’t see him,” Bucky starts.

“Before that. Don’t tell me what you didn’t see. Tell me what you did see,” Coulson prompts.

So Bucky describes the landscape. The arid brown of it all, how even the splashes of green had seemed brown. He describes the heat haze blurring the road ahead, creating mirages so you could barely tell where the horizon was. He tells Coulson about how tense Miguel was, wound tight as a spring, ready to snap at any second. The _tap-tap-tap_ of his fingers on the car door.

“The windows were open, why?” asks Coulson.

“It was hotter’n hell,” Bucky protests. “And it’s not like they were bullet proof. At least with them down I didn’t have to deal with shattering glass and we could get a bit of a breeze. Didn’t think you’d like it if your snitch baked to death before you could squeeze him for information.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Coulson promises. He pauses as though he’s going to say something else, but he holds his tongue and takes another spoonful of ice cream instead. “What happened next?”

“I didn’t see nothin’ but trees,” Bucky says, going over it in his mind. There should have been something, the glare of a scope or _something_ , but he can’t remember anything. He shakes his head. “And I was looking.” He should have seen something. That’s his job.

“Tell me about the shot,” Coulson says.

“Didn’t see that, either. Or hear it.”

“Bows are virtually silent,” Coulson says. “That’s not a surprise.”

“I saw… something like a blur,” Bucky admits. “Didn’t look like a bullet. I didn’t react quick enough.”

“Even if it had been, the odds of hitting a moving target at that distance were minimal,” Coulson says.

“I shoulda-“

“What happened then?” Coulson asks quickly, before Bucky can finish his sentence.

“I felt something on the back of my neck, like a breeze or… just something really light.”

“Can I see?”

Bucky leans forwards and Coulson cranes to see the back of his neck.

“Not a scratch on you,” he says. “How much space would you say there was between you and the headrest?”

“Couple’a inches, maybe,” Bucky hazards.

“Hmm…” Coulson’s thoughtful hum is not helpful.

“You don’t need to tell me,” Bucky says. “It was an impossible shot.”

“Not impossible, just highly unlikely.”

“With a bow and arrow?” Bucky asks incredulously. He’s a damn good shot himself with a rifle. Highest ratings back in his army days. More kills to his name than any other sniper he’s met, and he’s met a few. But that shot… Bucky hadn’t been driving slow, and it had barely kissed the back of his neck to find its mark in the man next to him. That shot was impossible.

“I have a theory,” Coulson says, “but I’d like to talk to you and Steve about it at the same time, and I’ll need to check something first.”

“You don’t want to hear what happened next?” Bucky asks. They hadn’t even got to the part where Bucky disobeyed a direct order yet.

“I told you to apprehend the suspect. You were injured in the line of duty,” Coulson says as he scrapes the last dregs of ice cream from the tub. “I apologise for putting you in danger.”

Bucky stares at him.

“That’s not what happened.”

“I have a recording that says differently,” Coulson says with his usual calm. “It’s understandable that you’re confused, Agent Barnes. The sedative you were injected with packed quite a punch. I suggest you sleep it off, I’m sure things will all seem clearer tomorrow.”

Coulson walks to the door. He’s got a point about the sedative, because Bucky’s usually quicker than this.

“Phil!” He calls as the door whooshes open. Coulson half turns in the doorway. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, James.”

*

The SHIELD databases aren’t much help. He looks up ‘deaths by arrow,’ ‘archery skills,’ and ‘known archers,’ but comes up suspiciously blank on all of them.

Bucky even looks up Miguel, but comes up against the little blue box that tells him he doesn’t have the necessary clearance to access this information.

It was his damn mission, for fuck’s sake!

A guy across the room gives him a sharp look when Bucky brings his fist down on the table, but one look at the metal arm and he changes his mind.

Steve hates the whispers that still follow Bucky through the SHIELD corridors. He gets this stubborn look on his face and a set to his shoulders that Bucky knows is him tensing for a fight; Steve’s bound and determined to fight the whole world somehow. Bucky doesn’t mind them, mostly because it means people leave him the hell alone. The only people whose opinions bother him don’t give a shit as long as he does his job. And Steve, of course.

Steve’s in the gym when Bucky heads down to beat out his frustration on a punching bag or two. he lets Bucky punch out his frustration for a while before coming over to hold the bag steady for him and they stay like that for a few minutes, only the sounds of Bucky’s breathing and the blows of his hands hitting the material filling the air.

“This isn’t still about the mission, is it?” Steve asks when Bucky pauses for a moment to push his hair out of his eyes.

“Sort of,” Bucky says. He takes another swing at the bag with his left arm, at an angle that almost sends it swinging out of Steve’s grasp.

“You can’t win ‘em all,” Steve says. It would be sage advice if it weren’t so damn hypocritical coming out of Steve’s mouth. In retaliation, Bucky hits the bag again, making Steve fumble, just to prove a point.

“That’s not it,” Bucky groans with frustration. He starts unwrapping his hands, the frustration not lessening at all. “I just want to know what happened, but there’s nothing in the database. No known operatives who use a bow and arrow.”

“That’s hardly a surprise,” Steve says.

“Yes, it is!” Bucky snaps. “It was a perfect shot, Steve. You don’t just roll out of bed and make a perfect shot. Not with a fucking long bow. There’s no way that was the guy’s first time. He’s been doing this for years; you don’t get that good without leaving some evidence behind, and you’re telling me SHIELD has nothing on him?”

“If he’s that good…” Steve says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “OK. So it’s a bit strange.”

“And Coulson knows something,” Bucky continues. “When I mentioned the arrow he knew exactly who it was.”

Steve frowns. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Bucky tells him. “He said he’d fill us in later, but it’s been three weeks. No missions and no Coulson.” They cross the room to the benches and Bucky takes a huge gulp of water. “Then today I try to look up the mission, see if there’s anything there, and I don’t have clearance.”

“But it’s your mission.”

“I know. But apparently I don’t have clearance to access my own mission report. An’ I’d bet dollars to donuts it’s got everything to do with that archer.”

Steve contemplates the floor for a moment, finding something in the scratches and scuffs that makes sense to him, but Bucky’s got nothing.

“If they had information about that mission and they didn’t give it to us…” Steve says. “They put the mission at risk – and you.” He stands up with a purpose and Bucky follows; he knows that look on Steve’s face far too well  – It’s the righteously pissed off look he always gets when he’s about to start a fight with someone bigger than him. Not that there are many people bigger than him anymore, but still:

It’s a look that usually means Bucky’s gonna have to bust some heads.

*

It’s not just Bucky’s reputation as a homicidal maniac that has everyone getting out of their way as they stride towards Coulson’s office. Steve’s got the human bulldozer impression down to a fine art and Bucky just sort of follows in his wake, glaring at anyone who holds eye contact too long.

Steve walks through Coulson’s door without knocking and, while Bucky is angry, he really hopes that they don’t get into any permanent trouble for this. SHIELD had been Steve’s idea, the only place he found to help him after Bucky went MIA. They’d given him some spiel about making a difference, offered him a role in their experiment, and promised to get him the answers he wanted.

And they’d delivered. Still, Bucky’s never trusted them and he knows Steve’s warier now after getting to know exactly what he’d signed up for; the problem with spies is that they compartmentalise everything. Bucky understands why, but if the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand’s doing, there’s a distinct possibility they’ll end up hitting each other.

Steve’s all about honesty; he’s not cut out for the spy game. Bucky’s better at it. HYDRA taught him how to keep secrets, both for them and from them. Doesn’t mean he likes being kept in the dark, though. He’s had enough of being an unthinking weapon in his life; he likes to know which way he’s being pointed these days.

But even if SHIELD’s full of smoke, mirrors, and vipers, Bucky’s not sure what else he’d do  – he’s got no illusions, there’s no way back for him: normal is a dream he gave up a long time back and SHIELD is the closest he can get to being a good guy. He’s just managing to settle in, he’s not ready to fit himself in somewhere else just yet.

In Coulson’s office, the man himself is sitting calmly at his desk, as though he’s been waiting for them to arrive. He probably has. There’s not much that goes on in SHIELD that Coulson doesn’t know.

“Please, Agent Rogers, Agent Barnes, take a seat.”

“What’s going on?” Steve asks, straight to the point as ever. He stays standing, but Bucky sits down. There’s no need to be uncomfortable.

“Agent Hill is on her way, then we’ll be able to answer your questions.” Coulson straightens some papers on his desk. They don’t need straightening, but that in combination with his tone means that Steve’s a little off balance; he’d come in expecting a fight, not a welcome, So Bucky makes sure his glare conveys that he knows _exactly_ what Coulson’s doing. Coulson meets his eyes and offers up a brief nod as Steve sits down.

“I apologise for the delay, but changing your clearance levels took longer than I anticipated,” Coulson says. That makes Bucky start. He knew that the information was classified, the database had made that much clear, but the idea of having his clearance level changed hadn’t even crossed his mind. Bucky’s not exactly flavour of the month as far as SHIELD is concerned. “There will be some extra forms to sign, but as soon as you do you’ll officially be Level 6 agents.”

Bucky blinks. That’s quite a bump. It’s no wonder it took so long. He’s officially a Level 2 agent, though he knows a few things he shouldn’t  – Steve is Level  5 by necessity, everything to do with Project Rebirth was.

“Level 6?” Steve asks. “Is this about the archer?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Coulson says. “Although you could try asking me again in five minutes.”

Maria Hill enters without fanfare, but Bucky’s immediately aware of her. Coulson, he’s used to, but Hill always reminds him of a panther. She makes the hairs prickle on the back of his neck and he knows that if she had to, she’d shoot him in the head right then and there with military precision.

“Rogers, Barnes,” she says by way of greeting.

“Ma’am,” Steve replies, but Bucky just nods. She holds out a tablet computer to him.

“I need you to sign and scan your palm,” she says. “The right one, obviously.”

“Do I get to know what I’m signing?” Bucky asks, looking at the tablet without taking it.

“Standard Level 6 security policy and waiver. You agree to keep our secrets, we agree to keep yours. Any violation is viewed as an act of treason.”

“Treason?” Steve asks.

“SHIELD has a lot of secrets, Agent Rogers. Many of them are matters of national or international security. You should know – you’re one of them.” She makes it all seem matter of fact.

Bucky looks over at Coulson again, who is still serene, before he takes the tablet. A quick scan of the document reveals little beyond what Maria’s told them already. He takes the stylus and puts down his signature, before laying his palm flat on the screen for a scan.

Steve looks alarmed for a moment at Bucky’s willingness to sign, but documents are just documents, after all, so Bucky shrugs and hands over the tablet. If he needs to break the rules, then he’ll do what he has to, some words on a screen aren’t exactly going to stop him.

Steve takes more time to read his way through and Bucky’s got to be impressed by Hill and Coulson’s patience. They don’t even twitch.

“Seems alright,” he says after a minute, before copying Bucky’s actions.

“Welcome to level 6,” says Agent Hill as she takes the tablet back.

“You’ll probably regret that,” Coulson says. Bucky ignores him, taking it as a piece of mindless humour, but Steve looks worried. Maybe he’s right; Coulson rarely says anything without purpose. As though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, Coulson moves on: “We have an assignment for you.”

“I thought you said that this was about the archer,” Steve argues. The stubborn look is coming back into his eyes and his chin rises just that little bit higher.

“That’s not what I said,” Coulson corrects. “But it is about him. He’s your target.”

“You know who he is?” Bucky asks, sitting up straighter. He sees Agent Hill’s lips purse. Whoever this guy is, she’s not a fan.

“Sort of,” Coulson says. He raises a remote control and the screen on the side wall comes on, showing a picture. It takes a moment for Bucky to work out what he’s looking at. There’s the blue of the sky and straight lines of black cutting through the image, lens flare from the sun and a black shape that resolves into the shape of a man, crouched, holding a bow, with a hump on his back that must be a quiver of arrows.

“This is Hawkeye,” Hill says. “He’s an assassin. He uses a bow and arrow for preference, but there are sources that credit him with kills using other weaponry.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “What else do we know?” Agent Hill looks uncomfortable.

“He never misses,” Coulson provides when Agent Hill doesn’t say anything.

“Everyone misses sometimes,” Bucky says. “There are always unknown variables.”

“He doesn’t,” Coulson says. “Or so they claim.”

“Who are ‘they’?” Steve asks. No one answers.

“SHIELD believes he is responsible for a number of prominent assassinations over the last ten to fifteen years,” Hill continues.

“How many is ‘a number?’” Steve asks. This time he gets an answer.

“Anywhere between a dozen and a hundred,” Coulson replies. “Exact figures are hard to pin down.”

Bucky snorts a laugh because ‘anywhere between twelve and a hundred’ isn’t just a rough estimate, it’s a joke. “Got any better pictures of him than that?” he asks, not holding out much hope.

“We have one other picture,” Hill says.

“Two,” Coulson interrupts. Hill’s mouth purses again.

“One confirmed picture,” Hill counters and Coulson doesn’t argue further. He clicks the remote again and an even blurrier picture appears.

“What is that?” Steve asks, obviously as confused by the image as Bucky is.

“This picture was taken at Alexei Dmitriev’s fiftieth birthday party,” Hill says.

“I’ve heard that name,” says Steve.

“He was a prominent member of the Russian government, formerly a general in charge of a number of off-the-books operations.”

“Didn’t he die?”

“Three minutes after this picture was taken,” Coulson confirms. “While entertaining a young man in his private room, two floors above where this picture was taken.”

“And where’s our guy?” Bucky asks. Hill points to the window.

“That’s a foot.” Bucky almost applauds the level of disbelief in Steve’s voice.

“It’s Hawkeye’s foot,” Coulson says.

“So you’ve got someone who’s seen him, then? Someone who can recognise him?” Steve asks.

“Not yet,” Agent Hill says. Her expression is getting sourer by the moment. “But the timing, the location and the method of death—”

“I thought Dmitriev died of heart failure,” Bucky says. “From over exertion.” It had been an article in the newspaper, worth a chuckle at the breakfast table.

“That’s what the Russian government claims, yes,” Agent Hill agrees. “But we have reason to believe they’re not being entirely truthful on the subject.”

“What reason?” Bucky asks.

“A post mortem,” Coulson says, clicking the remote again. A Russian document appears on the screen. Steve looks across at Bucky, who is already  reading it, and it definitely wasn’t heart failure, excepting the fact that his heart stopped beating – because it had been penetrated by a sharp object.

“It says ‘consistent with a knife,’” Bucky points out. “Not an arrow.”

“The witness insists that the man who did it was on the window ledge at the time,” Agent Hill says. “The knife was thrown.”

“Any evidence on the knife?”

“The fingerprints of a man who’s been dead for twenty years,” Coulson says. “And apparently it belonged to him, too.”

“What about the arrows?” Bucky asks. “The one he shot me with was modified – it injected me with a sedative. That sort of thing is specialised, you’ve got to be able to track them somehow.”

“No arrows were found in Mexico,” Coulson says, his voice firm and clear. “Only two arrows have ever been recovered, both were from early on in his career and they were standard arrows that could be purchased from sporting goods shops. We believe that since then he has started making his own.”

“I’m getting the impression you don’t have a whole lot of facts on this guy,” Steve says.

“You’d be right,” Hill replies.

“What’s the other picture?” Bucky asks before they get off topic. “You said there was another picture.”

Hill and Coulson exchange a look. Bucky can’t read it properly, but it’s clear that there’s an unspoken argument going on.

“There’s a theory,” Coulson says.

“Based on circumstance and hearsay,” Hill interjects.

“It would explain the name and the arrows,” Coulson protests.

“It’s a longshot and it has no real evidence to support it,” Hill says, folding her arms.

“The way I see it,” Steve tells them, “you don’t have a lot of real evidence on this guy to begin with. I’ll take the long shot.”

Coulson presses his remote again with a small smile;. Hill breathes out through her nose heavily. It’s not a sigh, but it’s probably as close as she gets to one.

The first thing Bucky sees is purple. The picture is of the inside of a circus tent. The crowd brackets it and, in the centre of the ring is a child, dressed from head to toe in purple, some of which sparkles. There’s a mask on his face, pointing up at both sides, and a smile beneath it that seems to dare the world to challenge it. The bow in his hand is what Bucky’s attention seizes upon.

“That’s him.”

“That is the Amazing Hawkeye,” Coulson agrees.

“Allegedly,” Hill says. “It’s a twenty year old photograph supplied by someone who was five years old at the time.”

“The name matches, and the timeline,” Coulson says and Bucky can tell that this is a pet project of his.

“The girl called him ‘the amazing hawk _guy_ , ‘“ Hill says.

“An easy mistake to make.”

Hill doesn’t look convinced.

“Is there anything about this guy that is confirmed?” Bucky asks, breaking up their silent argument.

“Yes,” Coulson says. “Up until about 5 years ago he worked alone, exclusively.”

“But that changed,” Steve prompts.

“Yes. We’re not sure how or why, but somehow he ended up falling in with this woman,” Coulson says and clicks his remote, bringing up a picture ofa woman on the screen. A wide-brimmed hat hides most of her face and all that can be seen is a dark red smile and the curve of her neck. “We have far more images of her.” He clicks through image after image. None of them show her face clearly, and if Bucky hadn’t been told otherwise, he would have thought they were different people: blondes, brunettes and red heads in outfits ranging from running gear to ball gowns.

“Who is she?”

“She’s known as the Black Widow,” Hill says. “And everything that implies is true. We believe she’s one of 28 female operatives trained as part of a Russian black op codenamed ‘Red Room.’”

“Let me guess, Dmitriev was involved,” Steve says with a huff.

“We believe so,” Hill agrees. “Based on their relationship and what little we know of the Red Room, it is our understanding that Hawkeye’s actions may have been revenge.”

“What do we know about her?”

“Little more than we do about him,” Coulson says. “She’s an expert at infiltration, hand-to-hand combat and assassination. As far as we can tell, she has no known associates or contacts besides Hawkeye. When she left the Red Room programme to join him, she burned all her previous aliases.”

“It takes a lot to do something like that,” Bucky says. “This guy must be important to her.”

“So in order to go catch the master assassin, we just have to go after the _other_ master assassin,” Steve says, deadpan. “Please tell me we’ve got something else to go on.”

“The information about all suspected activity for both Hawkeye and the Black Widow has been made available to you,” Hill says. “Agent Coulson will fill you in on your mission details.” She checks her watch. “I need to be going. Congratulations on the promotion and good luck with your assignments.”

And then she is gone, leaving behind the steady, efficient beat of her boots on the floor of the corridor, fading away.

“So this is what we needed level 6 clearance for? Ghost stories and unsubstantiated rumours?” Steve looks unimpressed as he stares across the desk at Coulson. Bucky’s happy to let him do the talking as he pulls up the files he now has access to on his phone and starts looking through them. He can’t deny that, unlike Steve, he’s actually looking forward to this. He’s been on milk runs and simple jobs since he came to SHIELD, never out of sight of someone of rank, babysat every step of the way. But this seems like something different; the promotion and the vague mission parameters imply that they’re going to get the chance to do this their own way.

Eye witness testimony is notoriously terrible, but this seems worse than usual. There’s no way half the things these people are reporting are true, even the police reports – especially the police reports – are full of hyperbole and ridiculous assertions. And, going by the descriptions, Hawkeye could be anything from a teenager to an elderly man, and Black Widow could be anything at all. The only thing every report agrees on about her is that she’s attractive and uses it to her advantage.

“We have a lead,” Coulson says. “Because we know that Hawkeye was involved in the failure of the mission in Mexico, we were able to trace some communications between him and Black Widow.”

“She wasn’t there, though. It was just him,” Bucky says.

“We believe the Widow may have been responsible for Hawkeye being able to find you. Your route was only known to a few agents.”

“A leak?”

“No. We suspect some sort of tracer, maybe a radioactive isotope. We may never know for sure.” Coulson shrugs. “However, we were able to gather information that both Hawkeye and Black Widow were due in Lyons three days ago. We have reason to believe they are going after this man.” Coulson brings up another image on the screen of a man with more jowl than chin. “He’s a major figure in French business and a substantial amount of money was placed on his head.”

“So we’re going to Lyons? Steve says.

“Yes. Monsieur Lefevre’s itinerary will be made available to you.”

*

Lyons is a dead end. Literally.

Monsieur Lefevre is found dead in his car an hour before Steve and Bucky touch down in Lyons-St Exupery.

They’re too late in Cairo, Johannesburg and Los Angeles as well. London turns out to be a red herring. They’re chasing ghosts and shadows, and whenever they get close, their quarry slips through their fingers. There’s nothing concrete, just rumours and stories.

Bucky’s starting to think that this is all some huge practical joke. But at least he can enjoy the trip. An all-expenses paid world tour; life could be worse.

 


	2. Barcelona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint takes an interest in his and Nat's new shadows, and Bucky isn't at his most professional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: mentions of people trafficking, drug use, and violence against women. 
> 
> Also, puns.

Nat lets herself into his hotel room. She doesn’t have a key, and she doesn’t need one.; she just raises an eyebrow at the arrow Clint points her way.

Clint feels sort of out of place in the plush opulence of the hotel suite; he’d have been more comfortable with the cheap and cheerful chain hotel they’d passed on the way into the city, but Nat’s right: their current job comes with certain expectations. Nat’s never going to pass for poor little rich girl if she’s in a cheap motel room.

It also comes with a well-stocked minibar and some really expensive-looking complimentary coffee, so Clint’s not going to complain too hard, even if he does feel like he’s lowering the standards just by sitting on one of the well-padded, silk-upholstered chairs. The place has a chandelier for crying out loud – a small one, but still: chandelier.

Nat, as always, fits in perfectly. Even in jeans she makes it seem as though she owns the place,  curled up in a chair like a cat, one foot dangling over the arm.

She watches him cleaning his equipment silently, so he starts talking to fill the air. He tells her about the ideas he’s had for some new arrows and he thinks he could get the materials for a flash arrow if they contact Dheeraj.

“I mean, I know it would be a bit in your face, but it could come in handy.”

“You always say that,” Nat says. “You still haven’t worked out what to do with that one you made last year.”

“The time of the boomerang arrow will come,” Clint says and she quirks an eyebrow, lips moving infinitesimally into a smile, but coming from her that’s a grin. There’s still something a little bit off, so Clint sits back, crosses his arms and watches her watch him. He smirks and she smirks back, and this is how they communicate, in silent challenges and wordless jokes.

“What’s up, Nat?” he asks when it’s clear she’s not planning to tell him what’s bugging her.

“Your friend from SHIELD is back,” she says after a moment. There’s no need to ask who she’s talking about.

“I thought we lost him and his pal in London,” Clint says, not that Clint and Nat had been in London, but still. It was a good ruse.

“Apparently not,” she says with a shrug that tells Clint more than she’d like it to about how she feels about the situation. She’s unnerved. These SHIELD tails are good; no one’s ever been able to track them this long before. Most lose track of him and Nat within a week, a month at most, and these two are coming up on three months now.

“Looks like they’re sticking around then,” he says, sounding unconcerned on purpose, because he _is_ concerned. Being chased around the world is only fun in the movies; in reality, watching over your shoulder every second is exhausting.

He catches Nat’s frown and knows what she’s thinking: it would be easier to just kill the SHIELD agents, but they’d agreed: no collateral damage. They only kill the people they’re paid to kill, unless they try to kill him and Nat first.; when it comes to contracts, they only take the ones they want to, because that’s the freedom of choice.. It’s more freedom than Nat’s ever had before, Clint knows that much. There are a few personal exceptions, but SHIELD agents just doing their job don’t make the list.

 “If they get much closer we’re going to have to do something,” Nat says, and her voice carries a note of warning.

“Think of it as a game of hide and seek,” Clint suggests, but it’s a weak attempt at best. “It just makes things more interesting.” Nat is not convinced, or maybe she never played hide and seek; considering what he knows of Red Room, that’s not impossible. “If they’re going to keep following us around, we should definitely introduce ourselves.”

Nat looks at him curiously, but Clint just smiles.

*

The job’s straight forward – they all are: there’s a woman and someone wants her dead, the end. It’s made a bit more difficult by the fact that she never goes anywhere without her bodyguards, four of them, all ex-special forces or secret service from one country or another. They’ve got a tight schedule: two weeks to get the job done, and most of those two weeks are going to be laying ground work and doing recon. They need to know exactly what they’re getting into, and they need to get the timing perfect if they’re going to do this properly.

Apparently, the SHIELD agents know who the target is, which in turn tells Clint and Nat where their leak is and Clint knows they’ll have to plug that.

It’s amusing to watch the agents watching the mark, though. The one Clint hit back in Mexico is good at blending in, despite his metal arm. The other one, blonde, blue-eyed and built like a Greek statue, really isn’t. He doesn’t stick out exactly, but there’s an element of unease about him, and someone’s knocked the worst corners off him, but he’s still obvious and Clint knows what he’s looking for.

“Do you think SHIELD hires based on attractiveness?” he asks Nat over the coms. His are built into his hearing aids, a gift from an old friend in Mumbai who’s a technology whizz.

“ _If that’s the case, I hope you weren’t thinking of applying_ ,” she replies. “ _I’d hate to see you disappointed_.” Clint looks away from SHIELD’s model agents to glance at her. She’s sitting at a café table across the street, looking every inch the sophisticated traveller. Clint, meanwhile, has the roof, his preferred perch, where he can see her and the SHIELD agents at the same time. The only regret he has is that Nat is closer to the coffee. He really needs to invest in a thermos.

“Be nice,” he says. “I’ve got a clear shot of you from up here.” He watches her toss her hair and knows that she’s got a smile on her face.

“ _And give away your position?_ ” She scoffs. “ _You’re not that much of an idiot_.”

“Might be worth it if you keep insulting me,” Clint says. “So you want to do the lift, or should I?”

Nat sighs and rolls her eyes. She’s facing away from him, so Clint can’t actually _see_ it, but he can hear it in her sigh.

“ _We’re here to do a job, not pull their pigtails_ ,” she says, but Clint knows it’s a token protest; she wants information on their shadows just as much as he does  – more than him maybe, as she will always believe that information is power.

“And we’ll be able to do the job more easily when we know more about Things 1 and 2 over there,” he says, playing his role in this little charade. “Come on, Nat. You can’t tell me you’re not a little curious.”

“ _We could just hack the SHIELD database_.”

“Nah, this way’s more fun.”

“ _We’re supposed to be watching the mark._ ”

“She’s getting her nails done. She’s going to be at least another half hour. We’ve got time.”

Clint’s already heading for the edge of the roof, his bow back in the bag.

“ _If they catch you_ , _you’re on your own_ ,” she says.

“Has anyone ever caught me?” he asks.

“ _There’s a first time for everything, and with your luck_ …” she lets it hang in the air and Clint has to agree that yes, he does have terrible luck, but he’s been able to pick a pocket without getting caught since he was ten years old. The circus was good at teaching life skills like that: how to shoot a bow, how to take a fall, and how to steal some poor guy’s wallet. All of them have been useful over the years, no doubt about it. That said, he’s never picked the pocket of a SHIELD agent before.

Down on street level now, he merges in with the pedestrians, measuring his strides against theirs, moving with the beat of the crowd.

The SHIELD agents have taken a table on the outside, which makes it easier, and the guy with the metal arm is sitting in the easiest spot to access. Clint even saw him put his wallet away in the pocket on the side closest to Clint. It’s almost too easy; Clint’s half expecting to get struck by lightning on the way. As if he can sense Clint’s thoughts, Agent Terminator shifts his gaze to look right into Clint’s eyes. Clint gives a polite, slightly awkward smile and looks away. He feels the agent’s pretty blue eyes pull away from him.

“ _Tell me you didn’t just do something stupid_ ,” Nat says in his ear.

“I didn’t just do something stupid,” Clint parrots back obediently. He’s not sure he believes himself. The woman walking next to him gives him an odd look and speeds up.

“ _Why don’t I believe you_?” she asks.

He’s coming up to the lift zone. He’s got to be quick; he’s got to be smooth. Blue Eyes isn’t paying attention anymore, which is a bit disheartening for Clint’s ego, but at the same time, really convenient for his plan.

The dip is textbook: smooth, clean, and unnoticed. Clint walks over to Nat’s table with the wallet in his hand and greets her with a kiss to the cheek.

“Why do you think I did something stupid?” he asks.

“You only smile like that when you do something stupid,” Nat tells him. “What did you do?”

“Nothing…” Clint tries to look innocent – he fails. “It’s just… he’s got the prettiest blue eyes.”

Nat sighs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I didn’t see them before, because, you know, he was unconscious from the sleepy arrow.”

“That’s a terrible name,” Nat says. “At least call them ‘knock out arrows’.” Clint shrugs.

“And I sort of thought they’d be brown, y’know, with his colouring and all. But they’re blue.” He grins at her.

“And how does this information help us?” Nat asks. The waiter comes over while she’s waiting for an answer and Clint orders a black coffee in perfect Catalan. It’s one of about eight phrases he knows in the language – always learn the important things first (other things he knows are ‘it wasn’t me’ and ‘tell me what I want to know, or I’ll kill you’).

Instead of answering, he starts looking through the wallet. Some cash, a couple of loyalty stamp cards, including one for Starbucks that’s almost filled in, and _bingo_ , a credit card.

“James B. Barnes,” Clint reads out, then reels off the card number and sort code. He knows Nat’ll have them memorised.

There’s even a SHIELD ID card.

“Ooh, Nat, look!” he says as he finds it and shows it to her. “He’s got his serious face on.” James Barnes is indeed glowering at the camera in his ID picture, looking very much like he would kill to get out of having his picture taken. It’s kind of endearing in a murdery sort of a way.

“Is that a SHIELD ID?” she asks, perking up.

“Yup! James Buchanan Barnes,” he reads. “So that’s what the B stands for. I always wondered.”

“You found out his middle initial less than a minute ago. I hardly think that counts as always.” Nat might have a point, but Clint waves it off.

“Buchanan, though. What sort of middle name is that?” he asks instead.

“After the president,” Nat provides.

“Huh?”

“The president?” Nat stares at him. “James Buchanan… 1857-61.” Clint shrugs. “You really should know that.”

“The circus wasn’t big on history lessons,” Clint tells her. “And that’s what I have you for.”

“They’re your presidents,” she says, but she lets it go. Clint’s grateful, because it’s when he comes across something like that, a fact that seems so obvious to everyone else, that he realises just how out of his depth he is. He’s not exactly educated, and he’s not even sure what he’s doing half the time, running round killing people with a bow and arrow, like he’s an X-rated Robin Hood.

“We should keep the ID,” Nat says, changing the subject abruptly as she looks down at the card. “It could be useful.”

“Nah,” Clint argues. “They’ll burn it as soon as he tells them it’s missing. Don’t suppose you brought your cloner?”

“No,” Nat says sounding irritated by the oversight. “But I doubt SHIELD would be that easy to copy. The magnetic strip’s probably a decoy. I’ll take a picture though; knowing what one looks like could be useful.” She uses her phone to photograph both sides, then hands the card back. “What else?”

“Nat, are you starting to get into this?” Clint asks, arching an eyebrow. “I thought you said this was a terrible idea.”

“Well, you’ve done it now, so we might as well make the most of it,” she replies.

Tucked in the bill pocket there are three more things. One is a picture of James Buchanan Barnes and the other SHIELD agent, although he looks a little different from how he does now.

“Holy shit – is that the same guy?” Clint asks out loud before he can filter himself. “He should make a workout video or a diet book or something.”

Nat holds out her hand and Clint passes her the picture. There’s no denying the confusion on her face, which manages to break through her usual calm demeanour.

“What?” he asks, because that’s about more than just James’s friend’s ugly duckling transformation.

“It’s probably nothing,” she tells him, which means it’s almost certainly something, but she doesn’t want to tell him right now, if ever, which is fine. Clint can wait. “What else?”

Clint looks down at the last two items in his hand. A business card and another photo, folded up hard and small, and he unfolds it.

The face is familiar, but the expression is not. It’s a picture of Barnes, somewhere hot and dusty (if Clint were a betting man, which he’s not because of the aforementioned terrible luck, he’d say it’s somewhere in the Middle East). He’s sitting on the hood of a jeep in standard military gear and he’s staring off into the distance with an expression of utter peace. His arms are both bare and both flesh and blood.

Even when he’d been stuck with the sleepy arrow (he’s never going to admit that it’s a terrible name) he hadn’t looked as peaceful. Clint feels melancholy just looking at the picture and he passes it to Nat.

The last item is the business card and the name on it makes Clint’s eyebrows rise up to his hair line.

 _Tony Stark, CEO Stark Industries_ , and on the back, scrawled in biro, a cell phone number with ‘ _Call me. Anytime,’_ underneath.

“Fuck. I think he’s banging Tony Stark!” Clint says, handing Nat the card.

“Tony Stark doesn’t give out his private number to the people he sleeps with,” Nat says.

“How do you know that?” Clint asks. “Wait. How do you know that’s his private number? Maybe it’s his booty call number.”

“It’s his private number,” Nat says with certainty. She looks up, over Clint’s shoulder, directly at where Barnes must be sitting. She must be interested if she’s making eye contact.

“How do you know Tony Stark’s private number?” Clint asks. She just stares at him until he remembers _oh right,_ _she’s a spy_. Nat hands the picture and the business card back and Clint carefully puts everything back in the wallet, not looking at the pictures again, even though he sort of wants to.

He hands the wallet over to Nat and downs his coffee.

Their fake goodbye is pitch perfect, as they respond to each other’s body cues instinctively. Clint loves having a partner, he loves having Nat; life’s just so much better when she’s around.

He takes off down the street and Nat moves in the opposite direction; the mark should be on the move again pretty soon and there’s a wallet to return first. Nat heads past the SHIELD agents – past _James_ and his friend – to drop the wallet off with its owner again, no worse for wear than when it left.

When the mark’s on the move a few minutes later, all four of them take off after her, like they’re all playing their own version of follow my leader.

*

Nat doesn’t come back to the hotel straight away that night, but Clint isn’t really expecting her to; she’s got her job and he’s got his. It just so happens that his job is a bit less demanding tonight, so he orders room service and grabs the laptop. SHIELD might be good, but they can’t suppress all the information out there, and a quick search for “James Buchanan Barnes US army” brings up some interesting results.

‘ _Sergeant Barnes missing presumed dead,’_ is right up there, along with a site filled with messages of condolence for his family.

From the information Clint can find, censored and edited as it is through the veil of national security, he can piece together a picture:

A young army sergeant and his squad go missing on routine manoeuvres in the Middle East, suspected insurgent activity in the area, evidence of a fire fight, but no bodies. Then, three years missing, during which time “Bucky” Barnes, as he seems to be called, lost an arm, gained more ghosts than he knew what to do with and somehow ended up in SHIELD’s clutches, along with his childhood best friend who had somehow tripled his own body weight in pure muscle and added a foot to his height.

It’s a really weird picture.

A few click-throughs on Rebecca Barnes’ social media leads to more pictures of her brother, both before and after his three-year disappearance. They seem like a nice family (Clint’s not really sure what one of those is supposed to look like, but none of the smiles seem forced in the pictures and the way they sling arms around each other’s shoulders, like it’s natural, like it’s not a pose for the camera, makes something settle in his chest).

Clint’s still looking at  pictures of Bucky Barnes when Nat gets back, which is only ten minutes later (he checks the clock – okay), so it’s not as creepy as it sounds. She takes one glance over his shoulder at the screen and gives him a knowing look, like she knows what he’s thinking, which really isn’t fair. Right now even _Clint_ doesn’t know what he’s thinking.

He closes the laptop, so that Bu- Barnes’ face won’t keep smiling at him from the distant past, and tells Nat what he’s found.  

“So, where did you go off to?” Clint asks when he’s done recounting his discoveries. “Hot date?” Nat’s cover involves her being seen around the city, enjoying the nightlife and spending far too much money getting far too wasted. She’ll probably be leaving again soon to soak up the admiration in a different club.

“Rogers,” she says. Clint freezes. He wasn’t expecting that. “Steven Grant Rogers, James Barnes’ best friend.”

“You know what diet he’s on?” Clint asks, “’cause I gotta get me some of that.”

“Six or seven years ago there was a rumour,” she says. _Oh good_ , that’s how all Clint’s favourite stories start. “About a serum, a chemical formula that could create the perfect warrior. The Red Room called it the God Formula. A group of scientists had been working on it, for some agency or other, no one ever agrees which one, when one of them went rogue, stole the formula, destroyed the labs and all the work they’d done and disappeared.”

“You think that Rogers…”

“I think that scientist ended up with SHIELD,” Nat says, “and I think the formula worked.”

“Well, it sure explains his physique,” Clint agrees, then asks, “Wait. You said ‘perfect warrior’, what does that mean, exactly?”

“Faster, stronger, more difficult to hurt, quicker to heal.”

“Well that makes me feel optimistic,” Clint says with a huff. “So Rogers gets himself shot up with the ultimate steroid overdose, why?” Nat shrugs, but Clint’s mind is whirring. He’s thinking about the pictures, about the timeline. “To get Barnes back,” he says. “He goes missing about a year before Barnes returns, and he’s still a duckling. A year later Barnes is back and he’s a beautiful swan.

“So we’re up against the perfect warrior and a guy with a metal arm,” Clint summarises as he collapses back into his seat. Clint can’t say it’s the best odds he’s ever faced, but he’s probably faced worse… probably.

*

One of the mark’s many businesses is a night club. It’s the talk of the town and it’s _the_ place to be in Barcelona if you’re loaded and you like getting loaded.

Nat slips on her party girl persona with a wig and a short dress and Clint’s going to be your bartender for the evening. It’s not his favourite role, his hearing makes clubs a nightmare and lip-reading in Spanish is a migraine waiting to happen. But the guy who makes his hearing aids, Dheeraj, is a legend and he’s managed to create a setting where Clint can get decent directional hearing up to about a metre and the background noise is a bit faded. It’s still a bitch, but he can make it work; but no one in clubs expects you to be able to hear.

 “Eduardo! You’re a life-saver!” Javier exclaims as Clint steps through the staff entrance. Clint’s always wanted to try the name Eduardo and he thinks it sort of suits him  – from Nat’s amusement when he told her his name, she doesn’t agree with him about it (of course, she couldn’t point out anything _wrong)_  – especially with the darker hair that he’s got on for the mission, and the twisting fake tattoos that twine up his arms to his shoulders. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt to show off his arms to his best advantage; he’s not above taking advantage of the situation to make a little tip money..

Javier promises him all the tips he makes and introduces him to the other bar staff. They all seem friendly enough, and Clint sets himself up for the night. It’s been a while since he tended bar, but he falls into the hang of things. It’s tempting to try some tricks with the cocktail shaker, or juggling the bottles, but no one else is, so Clint keeps the showing off to a minimum. He just adds a few flicks and twists here and there to keep the money rolling.

He doesn’t have the kill shot today; his job is to slip Nat the drugs and the hypodermic after she’s got into the VIP lounge, where the mark is holding court. All guests are checked with a metal detector and frisked before they’re allowed in  – excessive security unless you know the mark also runs a people trafficking ring out of the basement.

The staff aren’t checked, though, an oversight their target won’t live to regret.

He keeps an eye on Nat as he dances the familiar steps of the bartender waltz. Watching Nat is second nature, so he doesn’t even have to concentrate – which is a good thing because he’s having a difficult enough time concentrating on the customers. The hearing aids are holding up, but only barely and every time the music changes it throws him off for a few seconds. He can deal with it, though, he doesn’t think he’s got an order wrong yet.

Nat’s working her way towards the mark’s son, a lovely young man with a habit of leaving pretty young ladies with split lips and bruised eyes. No police record, though. Mommy’s got that covered. He’s bumped into Nat, in her blonde wig and party girl persona twice already this week and she’s made an impression. She always does. If he weren’t an abusive asshole, Clint might feel sorry for the dick. But he is an asshole, so mostly Clint just feels a rush of satisfaction at how much Nat is going to screw him over.

Clint’s motions are so automatic that he doesn’t even realise who he’s serving until he’s already sliding a beer into Steve Rogers’ hands. His brain freezes for a moment, but his body keeps moving. _Shit_. From what Nat’s told him, the guy could snap him like a twig. He considers aborting the mission, doing it somewhere else that’s not so fenced in, but if they want to do this properly, it has to be here.

They’d known that Rogers and Barnes would be here and sure enough, Clint glances to the right and Barnes is sitting there. He slides a second beer towards him and maybe it’s the nerves or maybe Clint’s just got no survival instincts at all, because he winks at him. He winks at Bucky Barnes, SHIELD agent. Fuck, he’s an idiot. Nat’s right. Barnes’s eyes widen, but there’s a small tug of a smile at his lips, like he’s surprised by the attention, which has got to be bullshit because there’s no way a guy who looks like that doesn’t get hit on all the time.

Clint should switch ends of the bar and let someone else serve them from now on. The last thing he needs is them thinking of him as anything more than just another member of staff. He’s not here to draw attention; there’s nothing more suspicious than the guy who’s only working the one night. He’s relying on the tattoos, the hair, and the subtle make-up Nat’s applied, in combination with the dim shifting lights, to make him unrecognisable. By tomorrow a quick shower, shave, and a haircut should have him looking completely different.

So he doesn’t walk away.  It’s a stupid move, but the way he figures it, if he avoids them it’ll just be more noticeable at this point, but even that doesn’t explain why his mouth decides to start moving.

“Sure I can’t tempt you to something a little more interesting?” he asks Barnes. He keeps his tone light, the innuendo barely there. “We have a great range of cocktails.” He allows himself a smirk at the way Barnes’ eyes flick down his body.

“Beer’s fine, thanks,” Barnes replies in Spanish. Clint leans forward to make sure he hears every word. His accent’s nearly perfect and his voice is a special kind of smooth. It’s really too bad that they’re on the wrong sides of this – and that Clint’s in the middle of a job – because there’s a backroom that could definitely use some action.

“Pity,” Clint says before moving away to another customer, both grateful and disappointed by the excuse.

Nat’s made her way to the VIP staircase; Clint thought it would take her another five minutes on the dance floor, but this means everything’s going according to plan. Clint’s got half an hour more of entertaining the drinkers before he takes the drinks to the VIP lounge to let Nat do her thing.

The lounge itself is separate from the rest of the club, frosted windows for privacy. There are rumours about the kind of thing that goes on in there, but he’s not worried about Nat: she’s the scariest thing in the building.

She goes through the metal detector and he sees her affect a drunken giggle as one of the bodyguards pats her down.

Barnes and Rogers are watching her, but they don’t seem too concerned.

The next half an hour creeps by, as it always does when Clint’s waiting for something to happen. He serves shots to people who’ve already had enough to drink and deliberately spills a drink over a guy who’d been trying to spike it. He catches Barnes watching him when he does that and shrugs as though it’s an accident. The smile on Barnes’ face implies he sees straight through him. Clint tries not to worry about what that might mean for his cover.

He makes sure he’s in the right place at the right time when Nat’s order of a Peach Bellini comes in. He offers to take it through instead of Alejandra, who he knows from their recon is terrified of the mark’s son, Juan Marco, for good reason.

She smiles gratefully at the offer, but hums and haws over accepting it, until Clint reassures her that it’s not a big deal and no one’s even going to notice. She gives in and tells him the directions he already knows to the secret service door in the VIP lounge – the one without the metal detector.

The hidden staircase is narrow and steep and clearly whoever designed it did not consider people carrying heavy drinks trays, which is kind of stupid when you know the whole club was designed for purpose. Of course, the reason it’s so narrow is because of the _other_ secret staircase on the other side, but still.

When the door at the top swings open, he sees pretty much what he expects to see: Nat’s in the son’s lap and one of his friends is snorting cocaine off the table behind her. To the other side, the mark is entertaining a man who looks like the offspring of a skeleton and a rat, and who is wearing so much gold he must have some pretty impressive muscles just to lift his hands.

Clint hands out the drinks efficiently and without comment. His job right now is to be invisible. This is Nat’s show.

He passes the drugs and the needles to her and departs as quietly as he came.

When he returns to the bar, he starts making a bit more of a show of it. Not enough to be noticeable, but enough that people will remember where he was when the police ask them later tonight.

Barnes watches him for a bit, which maybe makes Clint show off a bit more. He can practically feel the man’s gaze on him; those blue eyes are intense. He can’t quite resist looking back and their gazes lock. Barnes smiles a little, and Clint can’t tell if it’s amusement or derision that’s pulling at his lips, but he downs the last of his drink and swings himself out onto the dance floor.

Barnes on the dance floor is fascinating to watch. Clint has looked at the photos online, but seeing them in motion is another thing entirely. He moves like silk, like he loves to dance; he knows his body and he knows how to use it. Clint swallows slightly and shakes it off. Now is not the time to be distracted by a SHIELD agent’s hips.

Bucky is not looking Clint. He’s making a good show of being subtle about it, but Clint knows he’s watching the door to the VIP lounge. It won’t do him any good.

“---annoyin---at---at” the English words just pierce through the fog of noise and Clint turns towards them automatically. He starts as his eyes meet Rogers’. Steve Rogers is talking to him and Clint has to step forward to give his hearing aids the best chance of picking up the words. The sudden shift to English after speaking and hearing Spanish all evening, with some Catalan thrown in, is jarring and Clint has to reset his brain and his lip reading, but he catches most of it when Steve repeats himself: “He’s annoyingly [g]ood at that.” He must notice Clint’s confusion because he frowns a little. “You speak English?”

“Yes,” Clint replies. His Spanish accent is not his best, but it’ll do for a club filled with loud music. Accents are another of the things his hearing screws over: he can manage them, but it takes way more effort than it does for Nat, and if his hearing aids malfunction then all bets are off. It’s impossible to change what you sound like when you don’t know what you sound like. He realises that he’s gone back to watching Barnes and shakes himself again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

Rogers laughs. “Trust me, he likes that you’re staring.” Rogers glances over to where Barnes is undulating on the dance floor and rolls his eyes. Clint’s a bit stuck, because on one hand it’s great that Agent Rogers is going to remember exactly where Clint was when all the shit went down, but at the same time it seems like both Rogers and Bu- _Barnes_ have been paying more attention to him than is really optimal.

“I… uh… I didn’t think he was interested,” Clint says. It’s not entirely a lie. Barnes had been watching him, but he’s watching everyone in the bar, that’s sort of what he’s here to do, and he hasn’t glanced back once since he made it onto the dance floor. Not that Clint’s been looking, of course not.

“He’s interested,” Rogers tells him. This really doesn’t seem like a professional conversation for a SHIELD agent to be having and Clint wonders what the SHIELD policies are on fraternisation during missions. Although, if he’s right, Barnes and Rogers haven’t had any down time since they started tagging along after him and Nat, so… Clint doesn’t follow that line of thought to its end.

“It’s been a…” Steve pauses. “It’s complicated.”

Clint reads into pauses; he’d lay money on Rogers saying that it’s been a while since Barnes has been interested, and while it’s giving Clint’s ego a pretty hefty stroke, he wonders what ‘a while’ means. A while as in a few weeks? A while as in a few months? A while as in since he was kidnapped for three years and lost his arm? ‘A while’ is a very relative term. For instance, Clint considers three hours ‘a while’ since his last cup of coffee. He also says it’s been ‘a while’ since he last saw his brother and that was six years ago.

“I don’t think he will have a problem finding someone,” Clint says, nodding towards where Barnes is surrounded by people, moving together to the rhythm. “That doesn’t look very complicated.”

“That’s not…” Rogers sighs. “I just wanted you to know that he’s interested.”

Steve Rogers is a good friend, but a terrible wingman, Clint decides. Then he also decides that Nat is going to kill him, because the man is just like a massive, overgrown puppy and Clint’s always been a dog person.

Three pairs of eyes, Barnes’, Rogers’, and his own, turn to the VIP lounge as the son, Juan Marco, emerges from it. Barnes and Rogers relax almost immediately, but Clint can’t: it’s almost show time.

Of course, it’s right then that a bachelorette party chooses to tumble through the door, with bright pink sashes on and more than a little booze in them already. It’s hard to keep track of what they’re all saying, but it’s all hands on deck. Between their heads, as they make laughing requests to feel his biceps and take his top off, Clint sees Juan Marco arguing with the doorman over someone who is not on the list

One of the ladies has caught sight of Rogers and they’re insisting on buying him a drink, which he declines. Clint makes him a Manhattan on the house anyway and tells him that he looks like he needs it.

Juan seems to have sorted out the guest list issue because he and his friend are now walking back towards the VIP lounge. That was quicker than they’d planned. Nat better be finished or their exit strategy’s going to fall flat on its face, Clint thinks, and redirects his attention to the gaggle of tipsy ladies in front of him.

Juan Marco’s shouting is almost drowned out by the music at first, but it doesn’t take long before the beat disappears and with it the atmosphere. Rogers is moving in an instant, Barnes too, barging past Juan on the stairs. Clint’s moving only a second behind them, but heading in the opposite direction. The distraction works like a charm and while they’re heading up he slips into the backroom to let Nat out from the service stairway and out the staff exit.

Clint’s back behind the bar again in time to see Barnes setting off the metal detector with his arm, no one any the wiser. Clint has to stay and play horrified bystander for a little while, before he can slip off into the night.

The police are called and they don’t take kindly to SHIELD agents interfering, so as the guests and the staff are herded around like livestock, Clint watches Barnes and Rogers arguing with the newly arrived Inspector until all three are red in the face. It’s Barnes’ glare in the end that has the Inspector capitulating (and maybe it’s a little bit about the metal arm as well), although he’s not happy about it.

Of course, the discovery of the open secret door and the half a dozen illegal immigrant girls living in squalor in the basement makes everything a little more complicated. Barnes and Rogers are arguing about the mysterious blonde while the Inspector is having to call Interpol. It’s all a mess and no one knows what they’re actually here to investigate: the dead lady or her illegal people trafficking.

Juan Marco is shouting at the world as the police try to work out how he’s involved. No one quite seems sure what he’s guilty of until he takes a swing at a cop, then he’s in handcuffs and out the door; it’s such a shame. Considering Juan’s the one who hired them, he doesn’t look too happy about the outcome. Good thing the money’s already gone through because Clint knows there’s enough evidence hanging around that Juan’s not getting out of police custody any time soon.

The staff are interviewed separately. Clint’s had a lot of interviews in his life, in a dozen or more countries, and there was even that one mission where he was a police officer and he actually got to be the interviewer. It means he knows all the tricks and techniques, it’s old hat by now.

 “Eduardo Garcia Lupez,” the Inspector calls and Clint stands up, schooling himself to look confused and tired. It’s not difficult. Barnes sees him walk in and immediately glares at the papers on the table in front of him. Seems like he’s not too pleased to see Clint, then. That’s a shame.

Clint deliberately stretches his arms over his head, knowing the fake tattoos will draw attention, and he’s not disappointed when he sees Barnes’ eyes flick up from the table top to linger on his biceps for a second. Rogers was definitely telling the truth, then  – Barnes _is_ interested. Clint upgrades the SHIELD presence in his life from ‘annoying’ to ‘interesting.’

They start with the usual questions: name, date of birth, and so on. Clint’s used enough covers that he doesn’t hesitate to give the fake information; he and Nat have created enough of an online footprint for him that he should pass muster unless they decide to dig a lot deeper.

The interview is in Spanish, and it’s much easier to keep up with his accent now that the music is off and it’s just the three of them in the small room. He must be convincing, anyway, because the inspector doesn’t bat an eyelid when Clint says he’s from Girona.

Eduardo Garcia Lupez is a man with itchy feet. The digital trail Clint has set up show a man who can never stay in one place too long and who can’t stick at a job more than a few weeks at a time. If they dig a little deeper they’ll find some gambling debts and a reasonable excuse for Clint to flee the country as soon as Interpol gets involved. He’ll be an irritation, but one they’ll never be able to find.

“You don’t technically work here, is that right?” Barnes asks.

Clint shrugs. “I work here tonight,” he says.

“I expect you’re regretting that now,” the Inspector says and Clint gives a ‘hm’ that isn’t quite agreement.

“It was quite enjoyable, until…” Clint trails off. The policeman nods, but Barnes doesn’t seem satisfied.

“Kind of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” Barnes asks. “You work here one night and the same night this happens.”

Clint holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m not responsible for other people’s actions,” he says. “If I were involved do you think I would still be here?” He pauses then takes a different tack. “I doubt I’m the only one who hasn’t been here before. What about you?”

“But you had access to the VIP room,” Barnes says.

“I shouldn’t have,” Clint admits, making it seem like he’s feeling guilty about it. “But Alejandra didn't want to go up.” He pauses and makes a show of frowning. “The young man is not… she is scared of him. I offered to do it to help her. She didn’t need to go.”

“Did you decide to take other action on her behalf?” The policeman asks. Clint looks at him with a confused frown, although he knows exactly what the man is insinuating. “Did you take matters into your own hands and head up to the VIP room again, later?”

“If I had done that, wouldn’t I have killed the boy, not his mother?” Clint asks. “I wouldn’t have let him get away.  And anyway, I was busy when it happened.”

“The bachelorette party,” Barnes says.

“Couldn’t have left the bar if I wanted to,” Clint says with a shrug.

“But you were the last person to enter the VIP lounge before it happened,” Barnes says. Clint thinks about it for a moment. “That’s another coincidence. Two of them.”

“What happens if I get a third?” Clint asks. “Do I get a prize? Do you put me in handcuffs?” He puts just enough challenge into the words to make Barnes blink at the thought. It’s probably Clint’s best play here: keeping Barnes off balance. “I was long gone before it happened.”

“Where were you?” Barnes asks.

“Like I said, at the bar,” Clint replies. He keeps his eyes on Barnes, trying to assess just how much of a threat the man thinks he is. It’s difficult to get a read on him.

“Did you see anything unusual?”

“Apart from the screaming people?” Clint asks.

“Before that,” Barnes says with a shake of his head.

“I was a little distracted,” Clint tells him.

“By the bachelorette party,” Barnes says, and Clint gives a small grin.

“No, by the dance floor,” Barnes looks up, startled, and Clint meets his gaze with a wink. “They were playing my favourite song.”

“Why did you take the job?” Barnes asks. He’s looking the man in the eye very carefully, which is fractionally safer than looking at any other part of him.

“Javier needed a hand. I needed some cash, and… I like bartending; you meet interesting people.”

“People like Maria Serra Gutierrez?” Bucky asks. Clint gives his best blank expression, like he’s never heard the name before. Looking dumb comes naturally to him. “The lady who owned this place.”

“Ah, like I said. I’m here because Javier needed help. I didn’t know the lady.”

“You and Javier seem very close, considering you haven’t known each other long,” Barnes says.

Clint just smiles. “I guess I just move fast when I like the look of someone,” he says. “I move around a lot. I’ve learnt not to waste any time.”

“How long have you known him, exactly?”

“A couple of months, off and on. More recently we have got to know each other better.” That should line up with the intel Barnes has, and throw SHIELD off track.

“Are you and Javier lovers?” Barnes asks.

Clint wants to laugh at the question, because Barnes is definitely getting thrown off his stride. He’s grateful that his lie about the timing is holding up, and Javier’s a nice guy, but he’s got a taste for recreational drugs that made it easy for Clint to convince him they’d met before they actually did.

He crosses his arms over his chest with deliberate movements and watches the unconscious flick of Barnes’ tongue over his lips.

“He’s not my type,” Clint says, his eyes glued to Barnes’ face. The Inspector is getting irritated. Let him. This is the most fun Clint’s ever had while fully clothed – without a bow in his hand.

“What about the woman who came in with Juan Marco Ruiz Serra?” Barnes asks. “Was she more your type?”

“The blonde?” Clint asks, pretending like he’s trying to remember her. He waves a hand vaguely, before kicking his chair back onto two legs. “I had my eye on someone e—”

The all too familiar feeling of free fall hits him half way through his sentence. Clint’s arms untangle themselves to windmill desperately and he resigns himself to another minor head injury. But before his head collides with the concrete floor, everything comes to a sudden, jolting halt with a sharp tug on his left ankle, and he looks up to see Barnes leaning across the table, his left hand clamped around Clint’s leg, holding him and the chair frozen in place.

“Good reflexes,” Clint says, a little startled. The Spanish takes a second to come to him and he can’t work out a full sentence. “Strong hand.”

They’re frozen in a strange tableau for a moment, Clint at an odd angle, tilted back, Barnes lunged across the table, staring at each other while the inspector looks on in the background.

“Idiot,” Barnes says in English. It’s so low pitched Clint’s hearing aids almost don’t pick it up. He pulls Clint back up, until the chair rocks back into place naturally, all four legs on the ground.

“Maybe try not to kill yourself. We’ve got enough paperwork to do,” Barnes says gruffly, sitting back down.

“Can’t help it if you keep knocking me off my feet,” Clint says. It doesn’t work quite right in Spanish, but he’s banking on Barnes not being quite on the ball with Spanish idioms  – what he’s not banking on is Barnes finally giving in and flirting back.

“I know I look good, but try to restrain yourself from falling at my feet." Clint stares in astonishment. "Sorry,” Barnes adds. “Did I catch you off balance?”

Did Barnes just pun at him? In Spanish?

Fuck that is not fair. Do SHIELD have a file on Clint that says puns are his secret weakness? He was fine just ogling the guy, he’s not allowed to be fun to talk to on top of everything else Barnes has got going on for him.

“I guess I just rock too much,” Clint replies in English when his tongue finally unties itself. It’s a risk, but he keeps the accent and the pun definitely wouldn’t work in Spanish.

Barnes is staring at him. _Shit_. Abort. Abort. This was a terrible idea.

“You speak English?” he asks. It takes Clint a moment to register that, yes, that’s fine. Rogers already has that information.

“I have mastered many tongues,” Clint tells him, his mouth running on automatic now. He can spout terrible innuendo for hours. “My tongue is very talented.” He’s dimly aware that he’s tipping over into full on porn dialogue, but he’s too busy trying to work out a way out of here to care. Barnes looks amused though, which feels like a good thing. Is it a good thing?

“I bet it just ties itself in knots,” Barnes retorts. Clint tries in vain to remember if ‘tongue-tied’ is even a thing in Spanish. He’s pretty sure it isn’t. He’s already pushed it enough by switching to English, being able to pick up on something like that in a language that isn’t his native tongue would probably be a step too far. He really wants to make a comment about making Barnes come undone, but… shit. Flirting in a foreign language is way too hard.

“Agent Barnes,” the inspector says. “Perhaps we could get back to the point?” Barnes covers his embarrassment well, but Clint sees the guilty shift of his eyes. “Mr Garcia. Did you know the deceased?”

The questions slip back to normal with the inspector leading the interview and Clint pulls his head together enough to summon the correct level of outrage at the insinuations that he knew anything about Maria Serra’s extracurricular activities. He pulls out all the Spanish swear words he knows and stands up from the table, slamming his hands down.

They seem convinced he’s not involved, though Barnes still looks a little suspicious: Clint can feel his eyes following him out of the room after he’s dismissed. But as Clint’s leaving, he sees Interpol arrive, so he figures that both SHIELD and the police are going to have more to worry about than an errant bartender.

*

Clint makes it back to the hotel to find his bags already packed and Nat looking her usual self again on the end of his bed. He washes Eduardo Garcia down the drain, pulls himself back on with a purple t-shirt, and grabs his bags.

Barnes and Rogers are still tied up in legal red tape by the time he and Nat step onto a plane and bid farewell to Spain.

 


	3. Wherever I May Roam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt continues across the world, and against his better judgement, Bucky finds he's coming to actually respect the people he's chasing.
> 
> Steve can shut up, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this one took longer than I anticipated for editing. Just... thank God for beta reading, seriously.

**Cape Town**

Bucky’s never been to Cape Town before. His lasting impression is of light and surprise. The sun is so bright it makes his eyes water, even through the sunglasses that are permanently on his face, and he was expecting it to be bigger somehow. Having grown up in New York, the face that Cape Town seems to have spread out rather than up is startling. The presence of the mountains is odd too, like a constant reminder that in this place man had to build around nature, rather than forcing it to submit. He supposes it’s no stranger than the New York rivers, but the looming presence of Table Mountain makes itself known, hovering over them.

They’re too late again, in the vast gated community and the expensive house, and they arrive to find a man slumped over his desk, a wound in his back, although the arrow that is sticking out of it in the crime scene photographs is conspicuously missing now.

Bucky feels like Hawkeye is playing with him, like he’s a pawn all over again, and it’s tearing at his nerves and stirring deep in his brain. It’s pinging all those little warning signs he thought he’d thrown away; every time they get close, it’s like he sees a flicker in the corner of his eye, but then he turns to look at it and it’s gone. There’s nothing but a wisp of shadow.

With no leads (and no help from the local police, who are not impressed by their badges or their idea that an assassin was involved), they’re at a loose end.

They head down to the waterfront and Steve finds a fast food place  – it doesn’t matter where you are in the world, there will always be French fries. Steve puts in a token protest that they’re not sampling the local cuisine, but Bucky can’t bring himself to give a fuck. He’s in the sort of mood where he really wants to punch someone and while Steve could take it, he’s not doing that again.

They find a bench and Steve settles himself down to sketch, pulling his pad and a pencil out of his pocket. Bucky knows that it’s his way of dealing with the frustration, taking studies of the people who walk past: the woman with her children, the young backpacker with her camera. He’s losing himself in drawing because otherwise his mind would be chasing itself round in circles just like Bucky’s is. But Bucky needs to do something, so he ends up talking, kneading his left hand into his thigh, just so it’s moving.

“I’m just sayin’ that I don’t think it’s a coincidence we ended up on this job,” he says as Steve sketches the likeness of a woman’s hand as she holds onto her son. “I think they’ve got it in for us.”

“What? By sending us to do our job?” Steve asks.

“By sending us on a mission everyone else has failed.”

“If everyone else hadn’t failed, there wouldn’t be a mission,” Steve replies. He’s being reasonable and it’s the wrong way round. It used to be Steve that would get frustrated and Bucky who tried to calm him. Now everything’s backwards and screwed up. Bucky looks away, looks out at the people walking past, most of them tourists, even though October is hardly the season for them.

“I don’t know,” he says after a second. “It’s like someone’s laughing at us and I don’t know if it’s SHIELD or Hawkeye or the universe, or the whole lot of ‘em.”

“That paranoia or you talking, Buck?.” The words fall into dead air. Bucky clenches his teeth to keep in the shout that’s threatening to escape; of fucking course he’s paranoid; he’s got fucking reason to be paranoid. He’s had people inside his head, messing around; he knows what people are capable of, what they can do to you, and he’s damned if he’s going to let that happen to him again, or to Steve, or _anyone_.

“We’re spies, Steve,” he says instead. “Paranoia’s part of the job.” He catches the slight twist to Steve’s mouth out of the corner of his eye. Steve doesn’t like being reminded of what their job actually entails and one day it’s going to be too much for him and it’ll all boil over. Bucky’s not looking forward to that day.

“No one’s out to get us,” Steve says with more conviction than honesty. “Hawkeye and Black Widow are already long gone. We’ll get word about them sooner or later. Until then – we’re in South Africa, Buck. Let’s make the most of it while we’re here.” He spreads his hands out to indicate the world around them, with its palm trees and wide open spaces. It’s a far cry from the streets of Brooklyn, that’s for sure. “Didn’t you use to want to be James Bond? I remember you when we were kids.”

“It’s not the same,” Bucky mutters. James Bond looked so… slick in those old movies when they were kids: no PTSD, no infected wounds, no consequences that can’t be handled with a Walther PPK and a witty one-liner.

“Jet-setting spies hunting down elite assassins?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow.

“The cars,” Bucky says. “Get me an Aston Martin and I’ll feel like James Bond.”

“We could ask SHIELD,” Steve suggests.

Bucky scoffs at the idea. “If they can’t even spring for business class, I ain’t holding out for an Aston Martin,” he says. “I guess it just ain’t as glamorous as Connery made it look.”

“Not as many Bond girls,” Steve agrees. “Or boys.” There’s a tone to his voice that makes Bucky shoot him a sharp glance.

“Leave it, Steve.” They have had this conversation a dozen times since Barcelona.

“I didn’t say anything,” Steve protests.

“You were thinkin’ it,” Bucky growls, unscrewing the top of his drink bottle and gulping down some of the sugary, fizzy liquid.

“I just—”

“Go back to your drawing,” Bucky tells him, looking away.

“Bucky…”

“I will break your jaw, Rogers,” Bucky says, trying to ignore how truthful that feels. Sometimes the rage is too close to the surface.

“Like to see you try, Barnes,” Steve replies, oblivious to the very real threat, or ignoring it on purpose. Steve can be so very fucking stubborn.

“Metal. Arm.” Bucky points out.

Steve doesn’t even miss a beat. “Super. Soldier. Serum.” There’s a moment when their eyes meet, Steve’s calm and Bucky’s… well, he doesn’t know what his eyes look like, but he’s imagining it’s not pretty. The tension rises and then crashes down again, like a wave on the beach. Bucky heaves out a sigh and sags where he sits.

“Yeah, well,  fuck you,” Bucky says. It’s a lousy come back, but it takes the tension right out of him. And… Steve’s right; it’s a nice day and he’s in a city he never dreamed he’d visit.

“If you were fucking me, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Steve says. The laugh that escapes Bucky’s mouth sounds exactly as surprised as he is to hear it. “Pity you’re not my type.”

“I’m everybody’s type!” Bucky protests, but he’s smiling.

“In your dreams, Buck.” Steve’s got a smug little smile on his face as he looks back to his drawing, like making Bucky laugh is some great achievement.

Bucky throws a fry at Steve’s face and goes back to people watching.

*

Bucky’s just finished the last of his drink when a ball of paper nails him right between the eyes. He’s going for his gun before he remembers _public place_ and it registers that the thing that attacked him was definitely not lethal. Just a crumpled napkin.

He looks up to glare at whoever threw it, but there’s no one to glare at, just people walking by, oblivious to him. So he reaches for the trash, to throw it away. If whoever threw it was aiming for the trash can, they were a couple of feet too far right.

But his hand stops short before he can pick it up.

The napkin has unfurled and the bottle top that was used to weight it has rolled out. Drawn onto the paper is something that Bucky might generously call a picture: two rather clumsily drawn people with emoticon faces, one glaring out, the other smiling. For a second Bucky thinks the frowning one has a caterpillar for an arm before he realises that the segmented squiggle is supposed to be his own arm. It’s what’s above the figures that freezes him though: the SHIELD logo, clearly identifiable. Someone knows who they are. His eyes flick up, his heart pounding, trying to scan the area without letting on. He knows where each of his weapons is. He could reach them in a heartbeat. Nothing on the street looks out of the ordinary.

He’s still on high alert as he looks down again, but this time it’s the slightly bent arrow in the bottom corner that really catches his attention.

Bucky stares at the arrow for a long moment before swearing loudly, making Steve look up from his sketchbook. He looks around again, less surreptitious this time.

“What’s up?” Steve asks, and Bucky hands him the napkin in answer. Steve just stares at it before looking around as well.

They don’t move though, there’s no sign of Hawkeye, and that’s who it must be. Who else could that arrow mean? _Fuck_. They’d been sitting right next to him. All this time, just…

The man must be fucking crazy, that’s the only explanation Bucky can see. There’s no way an international assassin just announced his presence to the two guys following him. No one with a lick of sense would do something so stupid, or so arrogant. Anyone could have seen him. Steve could have—

“Do you think you drew him?” Bucky asks. Steve shrugs, face saying _maybe, but probably not_. Bucky swears again and the furrow between Steve’s eyebrows echoes the sentiment.

“We’ll catch them, Buck,” Steve says. Bucky doesn’t say anything. He takes the napkin back and examines the picture again before flipping it over. There’s nothing there. They’ll have to hand it in to SHIELD.

The sheer _nerve_ of the guy. He must have been close to lob the thing at Bucky’s head, _too close_ , and there was always the chance that Bucky would look up at that moment and see him. It’s infuriating at the same time as it’s sort of impressive, though Bucky buries that thought. Either Hawkeye is fucking stupid, a reckless _idiot_ , or he’s so confident in his own abilities that he knows there’s no shot in hell of SHIELD ever catching up to him. Frankly, Bucky’s got no idea which option is worse.

“Bucky,” Steve says. “You’re scaring people.”

“He was right here,” Bucky says. “We might have looked right at him.”

 “Yeah,” Steve says. “Now stop glaring like you’re about to murder the next person who walks by.”

*

**Chicago**

There is an appropriate response to being confronted with three dead bodies, and Bucky’s pretty sure it’s not awe. Steve is looking concerned, but when isn’t Steve looking concerned these days? If SHIELD is waiting for Bucky to screw up, Steve is waiting for him to break down. It’s almost as annoying.

He ignores Steve and looks back at the bodies.

“Eyewitness accounts say they all fell at the same time,” he says, unable to keep how impressed he is from his voice. “The CCTV agrees with them.”

“So it happened fast,” Steve says, crouching down to get a good look at one of the bodies, looking out of the window to try and work out where they’ve been shot from.

“No,” Bucky corrects. “It happened instantaneously.” He doesn’t think that Steve quite grasps that fact. “He shot three arrows at three different targets at the same time.” Bucky follows Steve’s gaze across the street, through the broken window, to try and find Hawkeye’s nest. He’ll grudgingly admit that this isn’t something you could do with a rifle (he didn’t know it was something you could do with a bow either, but apparently Hawkeye is determined to prove him wrong).

“You sound impressed,” the local police officer says, the one who’d been tasked with showing him and Steve the scene of the crime.

“You aren’t?” he asks. “A shot like that takes skill.”

“I think I’ve got three different dead rich people and a guy, or guys, in my city hunting people down with a bow and arrow,” she says. “I’m not convinced it was the same guy who shot all of them.”

“It was one guy,” Steve says, before Bucky can butt in and ask her if she really thinks that three archers firing in synchronisation is any more believable than one guy with three arrows. “And you don’t have to worry about there being more: these people are professionals. They don’t tend to pull more than one job in a place at a time.”

“So you say,” the sergeant says. “I’m the one who has to clean up the mess.”

 

“We need the arrows,” he says as the bodies are whisked away by the ME’s team. The body bags tent almost comically over the arrows, and Bucky has to remind himself you’re not supposed to laugh at dead bodies.

“These bodies need to be properly examined,” the sergeant says. She glares at him in a way that’s supposed to indicate that he doesn’t scare her, but she’s trying a bit too hard. Bucky stares back impassively.

“After you’ve finished with them, of course,” Steve says quickly, mollifying her a little. Her attention shifts and her shoulders relax some when she looks at Steve.

“You’ll get what you get when we’re finished,” she says. She looks like she’s about to say more when a young officer runs up.

“Sarge! You gotta see this!” he says. His eye are wide and his face pale.

Bucky and Steve trail after them, into what seems to be a secret room (who the hell even has a secret room, anyway? Not that one wouldn’t be useful, but still).The scent of blood hits the back of his throat the second he steps through the door, and that answers the question about secret rooms, doesn’t it?

Because people who are secretly serial killers apparently have them.

The place is a temple of death; there’s even a fridge full of human organs. It’s like something out of a horror film.

“Who the fuck keeps a fridge full of other people’s livers?” the sergeant asks.

“Spleens,” Bucky says, resisting the urge to ask who would keep a fridge full of their own liver; he has a feeling that no one would appreciate his morbid attempt at humour. No one asks him how he can tell the difference between a liver and a spleen when he’s two metres away, and he’s grateful for that. Some stories aren’t meant to be shared.

The smell of the room is familiar. It shifts mind slightly, other things overlay it, other people, other places. Somewhere dirtier and darker. A man’s voice telling him that he’ll be happy to return the favour as Bucky tortures him. Except it’s not Bucky, not all of him, and—

Bucky’s world disintegrates into red.

*

When Steve finds him, he’s mostly got it under control. The voices have gone, he can’t hear the echoes of commands in foreign languages anymore. He can’t smell the blood. He hasn’t hit anything, which should get him some bonus points; he doubts the local PD would appreciate him punching holes in their crime scene.

“An assassin kills three murderers,” Bucky corrects. It’s semantics, but there is a difference. What Hawkeye and Black Widow do has none of the cruelty of that hidden room. It might be clinical and impersonal, but it isn’t _evil_ , Bucky doesn’t think. He’s aware that his moral compass is a little skewed these days, but it’s not _wrong_ , is it? Should he worry about his ability to separate out the two things? Does it matter? People are still dead.

“Are you handling this?” Steve asks, not arguing the point, so maybe he does understand, or maybe he’s just ignoring it. Maybe he doesn’t waste his time mourning the fact that bad guys are dead.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I’ve got it under control.” He thinks it might be true as well. He feels steadier and his heart’s not beating as fast, anyway.

*

A nice but inexpensive suit and an ID badge will get you pretty much anywhere you want, especially if the badge is a really good fake SHIELD ID, with a hologram and everything (Clint’s actually pretty impressed with his forgery skills; it’s nice to be able to show them off). It just so happens that where Clint wants to be right now is the morgue.

He can practically hear Nat telling him off for whistling, but he does it anyway, just because it would annoy her if she could hear. He’s mature like that. He holds up his ID to Tom, the receptionist, who doesn’t even look at it, just gestures to the sign-in sheet, which Clint adorns with a squiggle that might have been a name, then waves Clint through without lifting his eyes from his phone screen.

No one stops him on his way into the morgue and when he gets in there he doesn’t even need to check the tags. Arrows tend stick out.

They don’t come out easily, though, and Clint is definitely better at putting them in people than he is at getting them out, but a twist and a sharp yank gets the job done.. He washes the blood off in a convenient sink and slides them into his bag, then he’s done.

He goes back to whistling as he walks out, waving goodbye to Tom on the way.

*

Half an hour later, Clint sits on top of the car as Nat leans against it, looking at a map. Across the street, outside the precinct, SHIELD Agent Barnes has just punched a tree, sending bits of bark flying.

“Do you think he found out about the arrows?” Clint asks. “I think he found out about the arrows.”

“You know they couldn’t actually use those to trace you, right?” Nat says. “You could leave them.”

“It’s a matter of principle,” Clint says. “Also, making new arrows takes time and costs money, I’m just being environmentally friendly. We should all recycle, Nat. Save the planet.”

“And you are all about saving the planet,” Nat says, still examining the map.

“You have to agree—” Clint waves a hand across the street— “This is way more fun. He’s adorable when he’s angry.”

“He could crush your skull with one hand,” Nat says. Clint tries not to look like he thinks that’s sort of hot (he fails miserably if Nat’s raised eyebrow is anything to go by).

He jumps down from the roof and claps his hands together, dragging his eyes away from Barnes to look at Nat. “You ready to go?” he asks. Nat nods and folds the map, going round to the passenger door. Looks like he’s driving, then. Clint climbs in behind the steering wheel. “Where are we heading, anyway?”

“Second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning,” Nat says, kicking off her shoes.

“Right you are, Tinker Bell.”

*

**Tokyo**

“It’s like a graveyard for robots,” Clint says, looking around at the carnage.

“In graveyards, the bodies tend to be underground,” Nat says, surveying a robotic hand, its wires hanging down like artificial veins. “And in one piece.”

“Robot Frankenstein’s workshop, then,” Clint suggests. He makes the mistake of looking at something that looks like a metallic head, just with only one eye. He’s half expecting it to wink at him.

“Surely in that case it would be the monster that was the robot, not Frankenstein,” Nat says.

“I just meant it’s creepy,” Clint says. “Anyway, Frankenstein’s all about a human trying to make another human out of human parts. If it was robots it would be a robot trying to make another robot out of robot parts, which makes this Robot Frankenstein’s workshop. Definitely creepy.”

“So I should return the robot I got you for your birthday?” she asks. Clint shudders at the idea and turns to see Nat’s smirk. He rolls his eyes at her and almost backs into the bottom half of a robot body before he turns back again.

“Pay attention,” she chides.

“Yes, ma’am.” As the words are leaving his mouth there’s a noise from ahead of them. “Looks like we’ve found our guy,” Clint says. Nat nods.

*

At least the room isn’t filling with poison gas or something. Bucky’s trying to look on the bright side.

Steve’s been trying to punch, kick, or smash his way out of one of the windows for ages, but this whole room has been built to withstand a nuclear blast, so even his super soldier strength won’t cut it. Or crack it, as the case may be.

It takes Steve a few minutes to work this out, or maybe he’s just working out his frustration, because he’s not usually that slow on the uptake. It means Bucky has a chance to look around for a slightly less blunt force solution to their problems, though, and also time to consider what exactly went wrong.

For once it wasn’t Hawkeye or Widow who spoiled their plans. This one was a whole different level of screwed up.

Dr Nishimura, roboticist, working covertly for SHIELD, his identity apparently secret to everyone but his handler and a few high up agents. Bucky and Steve had only stumbled into the know when they’d reported that he seemed to be Hawkeye and Widow’s next target.  Except apparently his SHIELD work wasn’t quite as secret as they’d been told. Also, it turned out that Dr Nishimura wasn’t as big a fan of SHIELD as he’d let on.

So rather than taking him to the safe house, like they’d planned, he’d decided that he’d take his chances with his new employers, whoever they were, and Bucky and Steve had ended up trapped in the room that he used to test his assault robots.

Possibly the most annoying thing about their current situation is that, on the other side of the glass, Bucky can see the button to open the door. It’s not a keypad, he wouldn’t need a code, there are no biometrics or anything. It’s just a button that says ‘Door release’ on it.

This room was built to be impossible to get out of, not get in to. They’re just on the wrong side of the door. They can’t call out either  – as a security measure, the whole place is designed to block signals from getting in or out.

Then there’s the fact that it’s Friday night and the lab is Dr Nishimura’s private lab, so the likelihood of anyone finding them in here soon is pretty low. With a bit of luck, SHIELD will be concerned when they don’t call in to say they’ve got the good doctor safe, but even that’s going to be hours away.

Bucky really wishes he’d thought to bring a pack of cards.

Steve gives up staring at the glass as though he can break it merely with the power of his super-soldier gaze and comes to sit next to Bucky. “Any ideas?” he asks.

“Apart from sitting tight and hoping Coulson gets worried when we miss our check-in?” Bucky offers.

Steve pulls in a huge breath and stands up to examine the door again. “There’s got to be a way out,” he says.

“Has to be,” Bucky agrees. “Probably won’t involve hitting things, though.”

Steve opens his mouth to retort, but then sighs, shoulders dropping. “Right.” He shrugs a bit self-deprecatingly. “No hitting. Guess I’m just a little _frustrated_.” He probably didn’t mean anything by the emphasis, maybe he didn’t even notice he was doing it, but Bucky can’t quite hold in the laugh.

“Ya think?” he asks. “I’ll bet you’re frustrated. When’s the last time you got laid?” Steve turns to stare at him in shock, which makes Bucky laugh a bit more. The guy’s finally got the size to match his personality, and he’s acting like he’s still the scrawny guy who couldn’t get a date to save his life. It’s not that Bucky doesn’t appreciate the fact that he hasn’t changed  – when he’d first woken up properly after HYDRA, he hadn’t been sure it was really Steve. But he’s still exactly the same on the inside, there’s just more of him.

He doesn’t need Bucky to help him get a date anymore, that’s for sure. Although, considering how little he’s making use of his newfound hunk status, maybe he does.

“You…” Steve looks perplexed. “You’re choosing to do this now?” he asks, gesturing at their situation.

“Why? You goin’ somewhere? Got a hot date?”

Steve still looks poleaxed and sure, maybe Bucky hasn’t really been up for personal conversations for a while, but since Steve levelled up with SHIELD’s magic medicine, Bucky’s seen people literally throw themselves at the guy and Steve just sort of… backs away from them. Bucky doesn’t really get it; he’s _seen_ Steve look. He’s pretty sure he’s interested.

“Really, Buck?” Steve asks. “You wanna do this now?”

Part of Bucky’s brain is still whirring on the puzzle of how to get them the hell out of here, but he can multitask and it could take a while. Steve needs a distraction and they might as well talk about this as anything else.

Steve must see the answer in Bucky’s face because he sits down again, leaning back against the wall, and crosses his arms. His mouth takes on that smug little quirk that means he’s about to be a dick about something and he knows it. Bucky’s already regretting saying anything.

“Oh well, if we’re _talkin’_ about it,” Steve drawls. “How about you?”

Bucky had thought this side of the conversation was closed. He’s been pretty clear every time Steve has tried to bring it up, but apparently he just doesn’t know when to let things go.

“Me?” he asks, looking as innocent as innocent can be. Two can play that game. “Haven’t you heard? I’m traumatised. Got the shrink to prove it.”

“Not funny, Buck.”

“Kinda funny, Steve,” Bucky replies.

“Funny how you didn’t seem traumatised when you were flirtin’ with that bartender back in Spain,” Steve says. Barcelona was months ago, but Steve keeps bringing it up like a broken record.

“We were undercover,” Bucky points out. “And it’s not like I haven’t hooked up with anyone. Unlike you, I haven’t taken a vow of chastity.”

“There’s a difference between having sex to feel something and having sex because you feel something,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “I know what you look like when you’re actually interested in someone and I hadn’t seen _that_ until Barcelona.” He pauses, considering. “Haven’t seen it since, either.”

Bucky can’t deny it, not really. It had been strange to feel that pull of attraction again. Steve’s also right about his hook-ups in the past few years: they’ve all been about blowing off steam, not actually liking someone. It never really mattered who it was with, it was just easier to fuck someone than to explain why he’d been arrested for fighting.

“I barely talked to the guy,” he says though, because there’s no way he’s letting Steve know how close he’s getting to things Bucky doesn’t want to think about.

“I heard about that interview,” Steve says. “The inspector was quite vocal about it.” Bucky bets he was; It wasn’t exactly Bucky’s most professional moment.

“Would you believe me if I said it was an interrogation technique?” he asks, not very hopeful. Steve huffs out a laugh. Apparently not.

“Look, maybe that wasn’t your finest hour,” Steve allows. “But it’s good to see you putting yourself back out there.”

“Putting myself out there?” Bucky asks after a second. “You sound like my gran.” A horrible thought occurs to him and he turns on Steve, looking carefully at his face. It’s as easy to read as ever  – another thing that hadn’t changed. “You didn’t!”

Steve tries to look innocent; it works about as well as when Bucky tries to look like he doesn’t know how to kill a man with his pinky finger.

“Tell me you didn’t talk to my family about me and some bartender I met once in Barcelona.”

Steve looks a bit ashamed. “Becca asked,” he says after a moment. “She asked me. It’s not like I brought it up.”

“What do you mean she asked you?” Bucky says. “Did she say ‘Steve, has my brother flirted inadvisably with any Spanish bartenders recently?’”

Steve winces. “No, she asked me if you’d seemed interested in anyone, like you used to, so I mentioned the bartender.”

“Great,” Bucky says. “What else does she know? You keepin’ tabs on me for her?”

“It’s not like that,” Steve says hurriedly. “She was worried about you.”

“That’s it!” Bucky says. “You are never allowed to talk to my family again. No phone calls, no emails, no visits. Nothing, Rogers. I mean it.”

Steve laughs. “I’d like to see you try. Your ma loves me!”

“Only ‘cause you lie and say her stew is edible.”

“I’m tellin’ her you said that!”.

“She knows what I think of her damn stew!” Bucky snaps, glaring at Steve. Steve’s got a shit-eating grin on his face and he leans his head over a bit.

“I’m tellin’ her you said that too. You know how she feels about you cursing.”

“I’m a grown man, Rogers. I can curse as much as I want. And I can handle my own love life.”

Steve’s smile falls a bit. “I know. It’s just for ages you just sort of… lived for the mission.” He sighs. “I know maybe you needed that, but it was nice to see you interested in something that wasn’t work.”

“Maybe take your own advice there,” Bucky suggests.

Steve huffs again and shakes his head. “Yeah, maybe I should.”

They lapse into silence. Bucky doesn’t know what Steve’s thinking about, but he’s working through bits and pieces of a plan. What happens next he wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t actually seen it: the door release button is on the right of the glass wall that separates them from the rest of the room, the same wall as the main door to the lab. It’s not visible unless you’re standing in the right spot; no one outside the room should even be aware that it’s there.

He’s looking at the window, trying to analyse where the weakest point of the connections between it and the ceiling would be, when movement catches his eye. Bucky looks down to see a spinning blur fly into the room. He jumps to his feet, gun in his hand even though he knows he can’t do anything through the tank-proof glass.

The blur hits the far wall, ricochets up to the ceiling and then bounces.

Bucky knows the trajectory before it hits its mark, and his mouth falls open as it follows through perfectly.

It hits the button dead on and there is a whoosh of air as the lock releases and the door opens slightly.

“What was that?” Steve asks, as whatever it was falls to the ground, its job complete.

It’s a pen. A cheap plastic biro with a clicker on the end. The sort of pen that you can get anywhere. The exact same kind of pen, in fact, that sits on the reception desk downstairs in the foyer. Bucky picks it up with his left hand, wary of fingerprints, and slips it into his pocket. There’s no way that wasn’t Hawkeye.

He’s torn between asking why and asking how. Who can throw a pen into a room, bounce it off two different surfaces and hit a button they can’t even see?

Bucky can’t really deny that he’s a little impressed. A lot impressed. Fine, he sort of wants to meet Hawkeye and shake his hand because that, right there, was beautiful.

He’s still going to shoot him first, though.

It’s nothing personal.

They leave the room with guns drawn, but there’s no one in the building as far as they can tell. Except, that is, for Dr Nishimura, surrounded by broken bits of robot and with a piece of paper stuck under his hand and two knife wounds to the back.

The paper turns out to be a printout of an email thread between the Doctor and a HYDRA operative.

Bucky’s hand tightens around the pen in his pocket. His mind blanks out for a second before he pulls himself back. For once, he doesn’t feel bad about having failed the mission.

*

**Lagos**

Clint’s been craving a chicken kebab for about a week. Lagos isn’t exactly kebab central, so he’s got the closest thing he could find – barbecued chicken in a coating that’s a bit peanutty and hot enough to make his eyes water.

Nat’s got a deal going down with some guy with a huge yen for privacy, so Clint’s not allowed to know exactly when or where they’re meeting. It’s a different city every time, if it’s even the same guy. Nat’s never been too clear on that.

So Clint’s getting lunch and doing his bit by keeping an eye on the local SHIELD presence – or not-so-local, considering it’s Barnes and Rogers again.

They’re pretty relaxed today  – about as relaxed as they seem to get, anyway. It seems like the two of them are always on alert, and Clint gets that, he does; you can’t kill people for a living and not feel crosshairs on the back of your head every now and then.

Barnes is trying to goad Rogers into trying some food that looks like it’s spicier than what Clint’s eating. It’s nice to watch them. If it weren’t for the concealed weaponry and the way they hold themselves, they could almost pass for normal.

He definitely likes these two better than any of their other SHIELD tagalongs. It’s not just because they’re easy on the eyes, either, it’s because for the most part they don’t act like SHIELD agents – well, not like any SHIELD agents Clint’s ever known.

Rogers manages to get Barnes to agree to them both having some, and then somehow it ends up that Barnes tries it first.

Rogers’ laugh manages to make itself heard even with the noise of the street playing havoc with Clint’s hearing. Barnes’ spluttering doesn’t, but Clint does smile at his bright red face and he thinks he can make out a few choice swear words on his lips as well; even the stall holder is laughing at the stupid Americans who can’t handle their chili.

Something catches Clint’s attention out of the corner of his eye. It’s probably nothing, but he turns to give it a more careful examination anyway, and, yeah, no. That’s definitely something. Some people stand out and some people are like Nat: fucking invisible when they want to be. This guy stands out, especially if you know what you’re looking for (Clint totally does). He’s young, green and _loud_. Like Clint said: the kid stands out.

Nat’s going to call him an idiot if she ever finds out about this, because this is a golden opportunity to get the SHIELD agents off their back for good without getting their own hands dirty; Clint should look at this as a gift from the gods and he knows Nat wouldn’t hesitate to turn her back and wash her hands of the whole affair.

If someone’s got a contract out on Barnes and Rogers, why should he interfere? But Clint’s already walking towards the would-be assassin, still eating his spicy barbecued chicken.

 “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Clint says once he’s standing next to the guy  – honestly, calling him an assassin is an insult to the profession; a dead duck’s got more situational awareness than this. The guy jumps a foot in the air, trying to glare at him.

“Who the fuck are you?” the kid demands.

“Nobody,” Clint says with a shrug. “Just don’t want to see you make a big mistake, that’s all.”

“Why do you care?” the kid asks. He’s about eighty percent bravado and twenty percent brain as far as Clint can tell.

“‘Cause I used to be you?” he offers. It sounds lame, even though it’s true.

“Yeah? And, what, you’re going to tell me not to waste my life on a career like this? That there are easier ways to make money?”

Clint probably should say exactly that. He’s pretty sure that stopping children from becoming assassins is pretty high on the list of what decent people do, but it would be a bit hypocritical of him and also not something he’s sure he even believes in.

“Sure, all of that,” Clint says anyway, “But I really just wanted to tell you that this job’s a dead end.”

“Half a million dollars doesn’t seem like a dead end,” the kid says, turning his attention back to Rogers and Barnes.

“No point in having money if you aren’t around to enjoy it.” Clint follows his gaze. “Which of them are you after, anyway?”

“The blond one.” The kid looks a little less sure now. “What do you mean: ‘if I’m not around to enjoy it?’”

“Well, if his partner doesn’t kill you – and he will, I’ve seen Barnes in action – then Hawkeye and Black Widow will.”

“Hawkeye and Black Widow?” the kid echoes as he looks at Clint. “They’re… I’ve heard of them.” It would really ruin the moment to punch the air right now, so Clint restrains himself. “Why would they be interested in a SHIELD agent?”

“I don’t ask why, I just pass on the information I receive,” Clint says,  shrugging. “And what I hear is that those two are off limits.”

“How do I know you aren’t just telling me this so you can get the payday yourself?”

“Do I look like a hit man?” Clint asks, spreading his hands wide and looking over the tops of his sunglasses. His stained and rumpled appearance seems to do the trick. The next time Nat says he should pay attention to what he’s wearing, he’ll tell her about this moment.

“Fine, so you’re not after him yourself,” the kid says. “But I’m fast and I’m good at disappearing. I could escape.”

“You heard of Peter Vasiliev? Might be before your time?”

“I’ve heard of him, grandpa,” the kid says. Clint chooses to take the high ground and ignore the insult.

“You hear what happened to him?”

“Everyone knows what happened to Vasiliev.”

“Then you know what’ll happen if you cross Black Widow.” The kid goes pale, but he’s still looking at Rogers.

“That was messed up, what happened to him,” the kid says.

“Yep,” Clint agrees. It had been messed up and he doubts he’s ever going to forget it. Nat mostly doesn’t do that anymore, though (except maybe to some of the Red Room’s worse specimens, but mostly not). It does work as a good object lesson in why pissing Nat off is a bad idea, though; He’d been cleaning blood out of his ears for weeks after that.

 “I already took the job,” the kid says.

“Contact your client, say something came up – happens all the time,” Clint assures him. It doesn’t happen very often, really, but often enough it shouldn’t raise any flags. The kid doesn’t need to have anyone gunning for him.

“Someone else’ll take the job,” the kid says.

“Then someone else will have to deal with the consequences,” Clint says. “Let me buy you something to eat. Come on, there’s a place around here that does really good fried yams.”

He leads the kid away, leaving Rogers and Barnes to their food.

*

When Nat shows up two days later, she doesn’t exactly look impressed. In fact, the first words out of her mouth are: “I hear Barnes and Rogers are under our protection.” Yeah, she’s definitely pissed. But if she’s heard about it, there’s a good chance that other people have, too, which should mean he doesn’t have to worry about Barnes and Rogers getting dead behind his back. Probably.

“You are aware that they’re on the opposite side from us, aren’t you?” Nat says.

“Well—”

“And that I don’t appreciate you using me for your own agenda?”

Yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have used her name without asking. “Sorry?” he offers. She lets out a long breath. He’s pretty sure she isn’t going to kill him, but he’s been known to be wrong.

“I know you have a thing about strays, but these are SHIELD agents. They’re under orders to capture or kill us. They are not our friends.”

“I know.” Clint flops back into his seat, waiting, but Nat doesn’t say another word.

Yeah. She’s definitely mad.

*

**Alexandria**

Nat disappears for another two days after their brief conversation in Lagos. Clint’s pretty sure she’s coming back, but she is angry and she doesn’t call. Clint goes to Alexandria alone to prepare for their next job and he’s not as thorough as usual in covering his tracks, which means Barnes and Rogers are on the next flight out, hot on his tail.

Nat shows up a day later to find Clint watching the feeds from the bugs he’s already planted. She hands him a bag full of Egyptian cakes and sweets from one of the stalls on the market, and pokes him in the side of the head.

“You’re an idiot,” she tells him, which is fair, and also as close as she gets to saying she’s missed him. He’ll take it. “Next time you want to do something stupid, warn me first.”

He nods and stuffs a piece of crunchy honey candy into his mouth before he considers something. “This isn’t poisoned, is it?” he asks.

“No point. I’ve built up your resistance to most major poisons,” she says, leaning down to rest her chin on his head and look at the video feeds. The target is picking his nose.

“Good,” Clint says. Then his mind catches up with what she said. “Wait a second. What do you mean you’ve built up my— _Have you been poisoning me?_ ” He turns to face her and Nat straightens up, her arms crossed.

“Not for months, and it was never enough to kill you,” she says.

“You _poisoned_ me,” he says, his mouth falling open and eyes the bag with suspicion. He’d thought it was a peace offering, but maybe it’s just tasty, tasty death. All those times Nat has offered to get the food, has actually _collected_ pizza… _Aw, no_. She probably poisoned the pizza. What sort of person poisons pizza?

“And in doing so, I made sure your tolerance for several known poisons is high enough that most dosages won’t kill you,” she says. “Not all poisons, obviously, the method doesn’t work for some, but—”

“But you put poison in my food!”

She rolls her eyes. “Clint, don’t be melodramatic,” she says. He throws a knife at her head and Nat dodges it on instinct, of course she does. She says, “Think of it like Iocaine powder.”

“I never should have let you watch that film! But what, I’m really immune to poison now? Wait, was that what that food poisoning in Mexico was?”

“Probably, yes,” she says. “And not all poisons and not immune. Just more resistant than most people.”

“Huh,” Clint says, Because oit’s actually kind of cool when he thinks about it and so totally Nat. Still, she poisoned his food; there’s no way he’s letting her give him anything to eat for at least a month. “What about in Lyons?”

“No, that was because you decided to eat from that truck by the station,” Nat says. “The guy working there didn’t wash his hands. It was disgusting. Sit down and eat your candy.”

“Seasoned with tasty, tasty arsenic?”

“Not today.”  She hands him a big piece, and he accepts it without fuss. He’s not letting her buy him food for a month starting _tomorrow_ ; these candies are way too good to pass up.

Besides, he trusts Nat to have his back and her making sure he won’t suddenly die of some stupid poison is, well. Sharing is caring, right?

*

Bucky’s not mad that the Hawkeye’s latest target is dead, even if they were supposed to be stopping that from happening. The guy was a scum who broke the legs of people’s kids when they couldn’t pay their interest, so no, Bucky’s not upset the guy’s dead.

What Bucky’s mad about is that, if it hadn’t been for his useless arm, he’d have seen Hawkeye. Properly. Not a silhouette on a rooftop or a grainy camera-phone image, but a real life, eyes-on situation. But he’d misjudged how hard he was gripping the door handle and the noise had given him away. It meant that by the time he’d entered the room he was just in time to see the back of Hawkeye as he jumped out the window.

So his arm needs recalibrating. The grip’s off, always that little bit tighter than he intends and it’s pissing him off (if it’s more or less than the fact that Hawkeye got away, _a-fucking-gain_ , he’s not sure).  “Bucky,” Steve starts, another one of his ridiculous, worried looks on his face. Bucky’s sick of them.

 “Fuck off,” Bucky grinds out.. He’s ordered the tool he needs from SHIELD’s stores and now he just has to wait for it so he can fix his fucking arm already; it’s not a big job, it just requires a specific fucking tool that he can’t just pick up anywhere, otherwise he’d have fixed it already and _Hawkeye wouldn’t have gotten away_. Maybe. He stretches out his fingers and balls them into a fist, over and over, arm whirring way louder than it’s supposed to.

He just has to manage for a week or so, which is how long Coulson had said last time he called. It just means that he’ll have to avoid doing anything that requires fine motor control or a gentle touch with his left hand. More than he already does, that is. No handling eggs unless he wants them smashed to pieces, dripping down his fingers.

  “What’s wrong with your arm?” Steve asks. “”

“Nothing. I can fix it myself,” Bucky snaps. He pushes his hair out of his eyes with his right hand, his left hanging uselessly at his side. It makes another weird noise, plates shifting, out of sync. “The calibration for my grip pressure’s out. I just don’t have the right tool for it. I’ve got one on order, but SHIELD haven’t delivered it.” He tells himself it’s not deliberate.

“Do you want me to talk to Coulson?” Steve asks.

Bucky gives him a flat look. “I’ve already spoken to Coulson. It’s on order. I’ll get it when it arrives.”

“Does it hurt?” Steve asks. Bucky blinks in surprise at the question and looks back at Steve who looks genuinely worried.

“No. I don’t— It doesn’t feel things like that. It’s more annoying than anything.” He shrugs. He’s used to his arm being different, he’s used to the weight of it and the way it senses the world. But having a part of his body essentially betraying him has left him feeling off balance. He doesn’t know if Steve would understand or not; before SHIELD, his body had betrayed him constantly. “I can manage,” He says.

“You shouldn’t have to settle for that,” Steve says. “How long’s it been playing up?”

“Couple of weeks, maybe. It wasn’t as bad before,” he says a little defensively.

“It’s getting worse?”

“I’m fine, Steve,” Bucky says.

“Bucky, you have to tell me about things like this. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.” He’s wearing his earnest face, which would be a lot easier to handle if Bucky didn’t know it was completely honest. He prefers it when Steve’s being sarcastic or teasing or pretty much anything other than earnest.

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” Bucky says. “Next time anything happens to my arm, I’ll tell you, okay?”

“We’re a team,” Steve tells him. “I’ve got your back, you’ve got mine.”

“Cut the speeches,” Bucky says. “I’ve heard ‘em all before.” He doesn’t need the touchy feely stuff right now.

“Wouldn’t need to repeat them if you’d actually listen once in a while,” Steve retorts.

“Maybe if you made ‘em more interesting, I’d listen.”

“Next time I’ll add in some jokes, that help you pay attention?”

“The way you tell a joke?” Bucky asks with a snort. “Not likely.” The moment has gone, buffered by the teasing which lets them ease into a comfortable silence. His arm isn’t mentioned again.

*

They have been back at the hotel for an hour or so, neither of them able to sleep, talking about something and nothing, when a call comes through from the night manager at the reception downstairs. There’s a packet waiting for them, and Bucky goes to get it.

It’s not from SHIELD. Just a plain brown envelope with their room number on it. There’s a heavy, almost cylindrical object rolling around in it.

“Who delivered it?” Bucky asks and the manager just shrugs.

“A man,” she says. “He was wearing a hood and sunglasses. He said to tell you it was no fun beating you when you weren’t at your best.”

Bucky opens the package cautiously. Sitting at the bottom of it is the exact tool he needs to fix his arm. He stares at it for a moment before tipping it out onto his hand.  It’s clearly not new. There are scratches on it and a dent in the purple handle.

He almost hands it over to SHIELD. He considers it for approximately two seconds before he stops himself. It feels like that would be breaking some sort of unwritten code. This feels like an amnesty, an extension of respect on both sides.

That night, Bucky fixes his hand, and in the morning he puts the tool into a new envelope, same as the other, but with an arrow in place of the room number, and leaves it at reception.

When he and Steve return to the hotel that afternoon, the envelope is gone, though no one remembers it being picked up. There’s no sign of anyone on the hotel CCTV either.

The tracking chip Bucky placed on it – because he had to try, Hawkeye would have been disappointed if he hadn’t – ends up on a fishing boat in the Mediterranean.

The next thing he hears of Hawkeye, the guy’s in Kuala Lumpur.

*

It’s weird, but since they’ve been chasing the world’s greatest assassination double act around, Bucky and Steve have wandered into some of the worst recesses and cesspools humanity has to offer: People trafficking in Barcelona, arms dealers in Alexandria, the cult leader and his brainwashing victims in Ottawa (well, maybe that’s not the weird part). When you follow criminals, you’ve got to expect them to associate with criminals. The weird thing is that Hawkeye and Black Widow are taking half of these people down.

Bucky supposes that there’s no love lost between members of the criminal fraternity, but it feels different somehow. Even the marks that seem squeaky clean on the surface turn out to be in the middle of some hideous act or three, and the evidence is always right there, like the pair of them plan their kills for the most incriminating times. All of which means that Bucky and Steve are getting a reputation for uncovering massive crimes and they’re doing very little of the legwork.

Not that they’re not doing any legwork. SHIELD hasn’t given them a jet yet, but the expenses they’re racking up on international flights have got to be raising some flags.

It’s been almost 6 months now. From what Coulson says, no one’s ever lasted this long before. Bucky knows that Hawkeye and Widow must know about him and Steve, but he has no idea what they think of it. The small moments of communication they’ve had with them – the napkin, the _pen_ , the tool dropped off at the hotel – indicate that they’re not angry about it. It seems more like a game to them and it’s starting to feel a bit like that to Bucky as well. He’s lost the anger at being led around, and he… maybe, slightly, is enjoying the challenge of it.

Maybe.


	4. Dubai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At a layover in Dubai, when they'd both rather be sleeping, Clint and Bucky end up crashing each other's work plans again, but this time they're not exactly on different sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Winter Miracle!
> 
> No, seriously, I have no idea where the last three months have gone. I have had the betaed version of this chapter sitting on my computer since October and I have... well. I can really only apologise. I'd blame life, but it's more likely that it was just me. Really. Sorry. So sorry.
> 
> (And if you're happy this chapter appeared then you should thank GoodIdeaAtTheTime for bugging me about it. She is a nagging machine when she wants to be (yeah, yeah, I know I asked you to).)
> 
> Happy Holidays!

 

 

When Clint gets to the rendezvous point in the back corridors of the airport in Dubai, Nat is waiting for him, peeling off her flight attendant gear to get into her new outfit, and wrapping the head scarf over her hair. A change in her make-up and she’ll be a completely new person.

Clint can’t get the stupid beard off his face quick enough.

“This stuff itches,” he tells her. He’s sure he spent half the flight scratching at it. The man next to him must have thought he had some sort of skin disease. “And I think it’s given me a rash. Next time I want the old glue again.”

“I don’t complain about the wigs,” Nat points out.

“You’re not allergic to the wigs!”

She hasn’t mentioned Barnes, and she probably won’t. He knows she doesn’t approve. She thinks he’s getting too involved and he is. When she’d seen that he’d deliberately arranged it so that his seat on the flight was near to Barnes and Rogers she’d given him her most piercing look, and she does keep glancing at him like she’s worried. It had been a risk, a huge stupid risk, but he hadn’t quite been able to resist. And it had been worth it. Their conversation had been brief, just a few words, some viewing recommendations, but it had made a long flight ten times more interesting.

Nat huffs and grasps his face to examine it.

“You’re not allergic. It’s only red because you’ve been scratching at it. Now get changed. We’ve got a job to do and a time limit.”

Clint glares at her, but takes the duffle bag she holds out and starts stripping. He’s going from travelling academic to wealthy business man. It’s an easier change than Nat’s.

It is disturbingly easy to get out of the airport without going through security when you know what you’re doing.

“I still can’t believe you got us a job on the way to another job.” He hops into the new trousers. They are apparently very expensive, going by the label, which Clint’s actually heard of, but they don’t look it. “This is not what overnight layovers are for, Nat. They are for sleeping. I need to sleep!”

“If you hadn’t been busy spying on Barnes then you could have been asleep on the flight,” Nat points out. Clint doesn’t really have a witty comeback for that, so he just pouts until she throws his shirt into his face.

“Put your shirt on. I don’t want to be arrested for indecent exposure.” He rolls his eyes, but does as she says. They tuck away their usual arsenal of weaponry. With the less revealing clothes, Nat gets to hide more than usual. With what she’s wearing today, she could hide pretty much anything, which could be useful as they’re gate-crashing an evil international business man convention today. Good times.

*

Bucky has a gun in his hand, pointed at the door, before his eyes are even half open. The knocking that woke him is accompanied by Steve’s voice, so he reluctantly lowers the semi-automatic. No matter how much he might want to shoot Steve for waking him up after only – he checks the clock – fuck, two hours sleep, he’s not going to. There’d be way too much mess, way too many questions to answer, and there’s probably a good reason. There usually is with Steve.

There had better be anyway.

He doesn’t put the gun away, though. He lets it hang from his hand as a he pulls open the door.

“This had better be good, Rogers,” he says in his darkest tone of voice. He once made a rookie SHIELD agent run away by just saying ‘what’ in that tone. Predictably, neither the tone nor the presence of the gun has any effect on Steve.

“Coulson called. We’re the closest team.”

“Closest to what?” Bucky asks.

“There’s been intelligence that an arms dealer’s in town. Someone big SHIELD’s wanted for a while. Codename: Gandalf.” Bucky rolls his eyes at that. If anyone ever tries to convince him that SHIELD’s not just made up of geeks playing at being spies he will refer them to this moment. “They think he might be meeting some buyers. Something about a big new weapon.”

“Do we have a location?” Steve nods. “Orders?”

“Observe and ID.” That sounds pretty SOP, but if he’s such a big fish…

“Not supposed to catch the guy?”

“I think they want to try to get the weapon,” Steve says. “And the rest of his organisation, so we’re not to engage unless it’s necessary.”

Bucky sighs and looks back longingly at his bed. Steve’s all bright-eyed and bushy tailed, but then he’d spent the entire flight to Dubai snoring quite happily. A mission’s a mission, though, and he needs his game face on.

“Guess I’d better put on my dancing shoes.”

*

The meeting is in a spa because, when you’re rich enough you can afford to do crime and get a manicure at the same time.

Well, the sign says ‘spa’ but it looks like some sort of futuristic holiday resort to Clint. Lifestyles of the rich and infamous, he supposes: let’s discuss illegal black market chemical weaponry while sweating our balls off in a sauna. Seems weird to Clint, but then, in spite of the role he’s playing today, he’s not a high-powered business man, so what does he know?

Nat’s booked him in for a treatment in the morning, something involving seaweed and stones that sounds disgusting but is actually kinda nice. It’s definitely relaxing. He falls asleep on the bed and only wakes up when Nat throws a towel at him, though that could be more to do with the lack of sleep on the plane than with the treatment.

It’s like someone designed it especially for him. The meeting’s in a room adjoining the courtyard and, what do you know, there’s a nice, convenient rooftop across the way.

Nat’s dressed in the simple white outfit of the spa workers and she uses her pass to get him his stuff out of a locker, then he heads off to the roof access while she goes to see what she can do on the inside.

The problem today is that neither of them knows what the guy they’re after looks like, which is why Nat has to be in the room. Normally this would be Clint’s game and Nat would be around for extraction, but not today. The plan’s fairly simple, as plans go. Nat works out who they’re after, indicates him to Clint with the arranged signal, Clint shoots the bad guy, the party breaks up, no one buys any super-weapons today, they get back to the airport in time to get their flight to Rio and life goes on.

Of course, plans have the annoying habit of fucking up around Clint all the time, so he doesn’t think either of them is holding out much hope for the clean getaway.

As soon as he sees who’s sneaking in to bug the meeting room, he knows the plan’s screwed.

“Nat, we have a problem.”

“ _If you forgot the boomerang arrow again then I’m not going back for it_ ,” she whispers through the comms. He’s impressed that she’s actually using its name; usually she just refers to it as ‘that useless arrow you made.’ Aw, it must be growing on her.

“We’re not the only interested third party,” he tells her. “Looks like SHIELD sent in some agents who just happened to be in the area.”

Nat can be very eloquent when she chooses to be and she’s taught Clint to swear in six languages he didn’t already know. Even he doesn’t understand every word she says in his ear right then.

“I’ve got eyes on Agent Barnes,” he elaborates. “It looks like he’s just bugging the place, though. Probably recon only, so I don’t think they’ll be joining the party.” He tells her where the bugs are, so she can avoid getting too close, and takes a moment to admire Barnes’ reach as he places one in a light fitting.

“Stop ogling, Hawkeye,” Nat snaps. He looks around the windows quickly, but can’t see her in any of them. “I don’t need to see you to know what you’re doing.” It’s finally happened – she can read his mind. He’s doomed.

“I think that might say more about you than it says about me.”

“ _It says that you’re too predictable_ ,” she says, her voice so flat it sounds like someone taught a wall to talk. Clint almost retorts, but someone’s going for a walk in the zen garden, realigning their chi or something. He hopes they find it refreshing, because they’re definitely going to need some zen in a few minutes.

“ _They’re on their way up from the steam room_ ,” Nat says.

“They’re early,” Clint notes. It’s not necessary; Nat knows they’re early, _Clint_ knows they’re early. He looks through the window. Doesn’t look like anyone’s clued Barnes in to the change of schedule, he’s still getting set up. “Barnes is still in there. Stall!”

“ _I can’t_ ,” Nat whispers. They must be really close to her. “ _Don’t do anything stupid. Remember: no matter how pretty his ass is, he’s still SHIELD_.”

“If he gets caught, his mission isn’t the only one up in smoke, Nat. We’ve waited five years for this shot. How long have we got?”

“ _Maybe half a minute. I could try to make it a whole one._ ”

The roof is shingled. It makes kneeling to aim his bow uncomfortable, but it’s useful for what he’s about to do. The sun’s behind him, so Barnes won’t have a clean view, but Clint draws the scarf around his neck up over his nose anyway.

*

Bucky’s setting up the last of the bugs when the stone hits the window. At first, when he looks out, he sees nothing but the bamboo privacy fence, but then movement above catches his attention. A man on the roof.

No. An assassin on the roof.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something to Steve when Hawkeye starts signalling: _Get out. Now._

Bucky definitely shouldn’t trust the word of an assassin, and especially not one he’s personally hunting down. But Hawkeye’s saved him before, has helped him before; if he wanted him dead, Bucky _would_ be dead. Bucky’s moving before he’s even though through the logic of it. He slides open one of the doors, grateful for how silently it opens and steps out, pushing it back into place. He hears the voices in the corridor as it shuts. He flattens himself against the wall only to look around and realise that he’s stuck.

The bamboo fence provides a little privacy for the room, not tall enough to cut off Hawkeye’s view, but enough for anyone walking around. The only way out is at the other end, past the floor to ceiling windows into the room he just vacated. Not an option.

The fence seems flimsy enough, more aesthetic than practical. He can just about get his fingers through the gap and, if he’s gentle enough, he should be able to do it without shaking the rest so badly that the people in the room notice. He doubts they’d take kindly to an eavesdropper.

Another movement out of the corner of his eye draws his attention. _Hold position_ , Hawkeye indicates and gestures that there are two civilians on the other side of the fence. Too dangerous then. He’s armed and in his basic tactical gear, though not the full kit. If one of them makes a fuss about the heavily armed man in black pulling apart the scenery, the mission’s blown and he’s got civilians involved in a firefight. Good luck explaining that to Coulson.

Bucky looks up. The roof’s not within easy reach, there’s a whole extra storey upwards, and he’d be in full view of the civilians again.

 “Steve, I’m a little stuck,” Bucky says as quietly and as calmly as he can. “And things have gotten a little more complicated.”

“ _What do you mean, stuck? And what do you mean complicated?_ ”

“They came through early,” Bucky says, although Steve must know that, because he’s listening to the goddamn bugs. “There wasn’t time to get clear. I’m stuck outside the window. There’s no way out without putting civilians in danger.”

“ _How likely that they’ll see you?_ ” Steve asks, he’s got his mission voice on, which is a good sign, he’s less likely to do something stupid.

“As long as I keep quiet I should be fine, but that’s not the only problem.” Bucky winces, because he knows Steve’s not going to like this next bit.

“ _You gonna leave me hanging?_ ” Bucky cast a look up at the roof to where he can see the outline of Hawkeye, black against the brilliant blue sky, his bow ready.

“Hawkeye’s on the roof.”

“ _Shit! Bucky, get out of there._ ” There’s something of déjà vu about the moment: Bucky listening to someone telling him to leave while Hawkeye perches nearby; it’s almost like the universe is playing their song, but this is not Mexico.

“He’s not here for me. I think he’s after the same guy we are.”

“ _It’s too dangerous. If he can see you, he can shoot you_.”

Bucky has to work to keep from speaking more loudly. Steve’s being a dumbass again. “He warned me they were coming. He got me out in time,” he hisses back.

“ _Because it would have screwed up his mission if you were found there_. _After he takes out the target, he_ will _shoot you. He’s shot you before_.”

“With a sedative.” Bucky’s pretty confident that he has nothing to fear from the man on the roof. “He’s had chances to kill us before. He’s never taken them. I don’t see a reason for him to start now.”

Steve swears. “ _If he takes out the target, we’re not going to get the information we need. I can get to the roof._ ”

“No point,” Bucky counters. “He can’t see the corridor from his position. Someone had to have told him they were early.” He doesn’t need to elaborate; Widow is in the room.

“ _There are three women in the room that I’ve heard_ ,” Steve says. “ _One of them seems to be involved in the deal, the other two work for the spa_.”

“She could be any of them,” Bucky whispers back. “Even if we take out Hawkeye – and he’d see you coming – we’d never save the target. He’s as good as dead.”

“ _But we could still get Hawkeye_.”

“And put our own mission at risk because you’re not listening to the bugs?” Bucky asks. “You wanna phone it in to Coulson?” He knows Steve doesn’t, but it’s the right call. Bucky waits patiently and tries not to feel like a trap is closing in around him.

 “ _Coulson says to leave Hawkeye and the Widow alone_.” Steve says. He doesn’t sound happy. “ _We don’t know who their target is and we don’t want to spook ours by acting too soon._ ”

“And if they’re the same guy?”

“ _Then we’ve still got the information and the world has one less arms dealer._ ” Bucky can hear the edge in Steve’s voice. He’s not a fan of the colder side of SHIELD, not that there is a warm, fuzzy side. Steve’s OK with killing in self-defence or in a battle, but he doesn’t distinguish between assassination and cold-blooded murder.

“You heard the man, Rogers. We have our orders.” There’s a moment when Bucky thinks Steve’s going to say ‘fuck it’ and come in anyway. He doesn’t follow orders he doesn’t agree with, but he does respect Coulson. Bucky can practically hear the war going on in his head.

“ _If it looks like he’s going for you_ ,” Steve says.

“I’ll shoot him,” Bucky assures.

“ _Damn_ ,” Steve says.

“What?”

“ _Someone hasn’t shown up_ ,” Steve tells him. “ _They’re complaining about it._ ”

“Our guy?”

“ _Maybe, they seem pretty upset. They’re not using the established call signs, though._ ”

“So this mission could be a bust anyway?”

“ _Maybe… No. It looks like they’re planning to do business anyway, without him. The target could still be in there. I can’t tell._ _They’re getting the spa workers out of there._ ”

“Guess I’m sitting pretty a little while longer,” Bucky says with a sigh, leaning his head back against the wall.

“ _Guess so_.”

*

Barnes has been talking to himself, or presumably to Rogers. He’s mumbling so even Clint’s finely tuned lip reading skills (which work maybe 25-50% of the time on a good day at a reasonable distance, with perfect lighting) can’t pick up what he’s saying. But Rogers hasn’t materialised his Adonis-like physique onto the roof yet, so Clint’s pretty sure that whatever Barnes is saying it’s not ‘there’s a Hawkeye on the roof, get him!’

“ _I’m clear_ ,” Nat says. “ _You’re OK to shoot_.”

Yeah, Nat’s clear, but Barnes isn’t. If Clint shoots, the first place all those people in that room are going – including the heavily armed bodyguards (apparently they didn’t rate the deep tissue massage and fluffy dressing gowns, go figure) – is out of the window. And there’s no way they’re going to miss the SHIELD agent standing right next to them.

“ _Take the shot_ ,” Nat says.

“Barnes is still there.”

“ _Five years_ ,” Nat reminds him. “ _Barnes is a big boy. He can take care of himself._ ”

“Nat… we can…” he starts. Five years isn’t that long, all things considered.

“ _It’s not the target_ ,” Nat says. “ _The target was a no show._ ”

“If it’s not the target, then why–“

“ _He’s on my list_.”

Aw, fuck.

Nat has a list of nightmares: it’s not long, but it’s very real. And Clint made a promise. He lets go of the arrow for a moment and waves to Barnes, who sees him almost immediately. He doesn’t bother with anything else, just aims his arrow and lets it fly. Barnes is a big boy; he can take care of himself, just like Nat said, and on a balcony in Budapest in the light of the city burning, Clint made a promise.

*

Hawkeye gives Bucky enough time to brace himself before all hell breaks loose.

The window shatters, but Bucky doesn’t doubt that the arrow hits its mark. He doesn’t check, there are more important things to think about. His hand is already on his gun.

“Might need a hand, Rogers,” he manages to say as the bodyguards pile out of the doors, not bothering to open them, just kicking the broken glass out the way. One of them’s spotted the archer already and the sound of gunshots and screaming fills the air – those will be the civilians Hawkeye warned him about.

For a second, Bucky thinks he might have gotten away with it. He could make a run behind the shooters’ backs. But one of the bodyguards sees him and turns.

Bucky shoots the guy before he can talk, but that’s enough for the others to get involved.

*

Gut shots hurt. _Shit_ but gut shots hurt. Bucky can’t stand, but he can still shoot. He switches his gun to his left hand and clutches his right to his stomach.

“Might want to hurry up a bit, Stevie,” he says as he aims at the guy in front of him, but before he pulls the trigger, the guy’s already falling, an arrow in his brain.

“ _Hold on_ ,” Steve says. “ _I’m almost there, Buck_.”

His vision’s getting blurry. Bad sign. Still, five bad guys to go. Bucky can handle those odds. He squeezes the trigger, makes it four. It’s a bit like a nursery rhyme, he thinks.  Five, four –

Three bad guys – when did that happen?

Then Steve is there and it’s no bad guys and Bucky’s vision is narrowing to pin pricks.

“I didn’t hunt you down in Afghanistan just so you could die in Dubai, you idiot,” Stevie’s saying. Bucky smiles at him and tries to pat his shoulder, but his arm feels like lead. “Keep your eyes open, Buck. Look at me!”

“Why would I want to look at your stupid face?” Bucky asks, or he thinks he does, everything goes a bit dark.

*

Bucky’s dreams are hazy things filled with dust and blood.

He dreams of Afghanistan. He dreams of HYDRA and their orders burrowing into his brain. He dreams of taking a knife and carving into someone’s chest. He dreams of torture – from both sides of the table.

His dreams are shifting, morphing, changing. A knife, a chair, he’s strapped into it, there are tentacles wrapping around his wrists, the suckers attaching to his skin and sucking him right out of it.

He dreams that Steve is drowning in a river of blood and all Bucky can do is slit more throats.

He dreams himself.

*

There are doctors. They speak in slow words he can’t understand. There are bright lights and loud noises, but everything seems far away, like he’s watching it at the cinema.

*

They try to take his arm. He won’t let them. Not again. They can’t have his arm.

*

He dreams Steve is gripping his arm. He dreams that he grips back.

*

When Bucky finally wakes up, aware of his surroundings, he revels in the bright, ugly light. There hadn’t been lights like that when they’d strapped him to the chair to deal with his arm, or to play with his brain. Those lights had been yellow, sickly, like jaundice. He is not in Afghanistan.

His thoughts have the floaty feeling that comes from painkillers. He’s not a fan. They make him feel out of control, like he’s driving a car skidding on ice. He’s had enough of being out of control for one lifetime. But the pain of a bullet to the gut’s got to be worse than this feeling of sliding around in his own head.

He doesn’t sit up, but he does try to move his arm, his left one. There’s no response.  He tries again. Still no response. Again. No response.

His arm is gone. Again.

They took it. Again.

His arm.

He looks down, expecting to see thin air, but it’s still there. Still attached. It looks a little worse for wear.

“A bullet hit the joint,” a familiar voice says and Bucky’s really out of it if he didn’t notice Coulson. “We think it was blind luck combined with close range that they managed to hit it somewhere that had such a big effect.” Bucky nods, but the words aren’t really going in.

“It’s not working,” he says.

“We’re working on that.”

A nurse comes in and he looks damned good in scrubs. Bucky might say that out loud, if the nurse’s smile is anything to go by.

“You must really like me,” Bucky says. The nurse freezes for a moment before Bucky turns to Coulson. “You keep coming to visit me on my sickbed. People are going to get the wrong idea, Phil.”

“Maybe I’m just coming to check that you’re not faking it to get more sick leave,” Coulson says.

“Yep,” Bucky agrees. “Definitely fake. All of it.”

“Then I expect you back at work on Monday.”

“I’ll be there,” Bucky assures him. “Bright and early.”

Steve comes in then, looking like he’s barely slept. He’s an idiot and Bucky tells him so.

“Yeah, I’m not the one who got shot,” Steve retorts.

“Idiot,” Bucky repeats, before yawning and falling back to sleep.

*

After Bucky passes out again, Coulson forces Steve to go out and get something to eat.

The canteen’s two floors up and Steve wouldn’t feed the sludge they sell to a pig, so he’s not got a lot of options. He’s banging a vending machine that’s eaten his money when a woman in a hoodie walks up and sits in the plastic seats nearby. She looks as much of a wreck as Steve feels. Her hands are shoved in her pockets and she curls up her legs to her chest. As she drops her head down, a strand of red hair falls across her face.

Steve sits down next to her and lets his head fall back against the wall. It’s sort of good to be in company without being in company; all the SHIELD agents who come up to him are either expecting him to be in charge or in control and the doctors just have more news and questions. As Bucky’s medical contact, he’s been making decisions for the last three days. Three surgeries, two debriefs, a mission report and all sorts of stupid things to answer.

 _Should we perform this operation?_ Yes.

 _Do you know his blood type?_ B+

 _Should we remove the arm?_ No, no and a thousand times no. Steve’s not letting anyone near that arm who isn’t qualified to deal with it.

 _Do you believe Agent Barnes was justified in his actions?_ Yes.

 _Do you believe Agent Barnes withheld any information regarding this mission?_ No.

 _Why do you think the assassin known as Hawkeye let Agent Barnes live?_ How the hell would Steve know?

He realises that his hands are balled into fists on his knees and the girl beside him is looking at him warily.

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s been a really long couple of days.” e didn’t mean to scare her; he forgets sometimes that now he’s bigger people notice him more; he’s used to people laughing at his anger than fearing it. It’s a weird transition to make. “You here for someone, too?” She nods, but doesn’t speak. They gonna be OK?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “It could go either way.” Steve just nods; he doesn’t think there’s anything you can say to that. “What about you, is… are they going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve allows himself a relieved smile at the thought. “He’s going to be fine. I was… they weren’t sure for a while, but he’s going to pull through.” She nods and, for a moment, Steve worries that it was cruel, talking like that when someone she cares about is still in danger. She smiles softly, though.

“You care about him a lot,” she says.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees.  But then it seems like an oversimplification, because he and Bucky… “We’ve been friends forever. He’s always been there.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself because he can’ think of words that could describe his friendship with Bucky. “Do you have anyone who… they’re like the voice in the back of your head egging you on and also telling you not to be an idiot? And you don’t have to worry about what they think of you because you know they’ve already seen all the good things and the bad things and they stayed by your side anyway. You know they aren’t going anywhere. And you’d go to the wire for them even if you disagreed with them, just because it’s them? Or you’d jump off a cliff blindfolded because they said so, because you trust them? He’s not like a friend, he’s like…I’ve been through hell for him, but I don’t need him to say thank you, because I know he’d do the same for me and we never need to say it because it’s just… understood.”

Steve’s running his mouth; he’s not even sure what words are coming out right now. Two nights of no real sleep and he’s talking nonsense to a complete stranger. And she’s staring at him. Steve apologises, but she reaches out to rest a hand on his arm. The movement is tentative, like she’s not sure what she’s doing.

Steve looks up into green eyes and an expression that doesn’t look confused or sympathetic or even amused, but thoughtful and a little bit surprised.

“Yes,” she says. “I have someone like that.” She looks startled by the very idea. “Well, almost. I’m more likely to be telling him not to be an idiot.”

They sit there for a while in silence again and it’s back to being companionable. Steve takes a deep breath and the tension drains out of him a bit more.

Bucky is fine. He’s woken up. The doctors have fixed his gut, SHIELD’s guarding the hospital, and when they get back to the US, Steve’s going to get Bucky to someone who can fix his arm. Everything is going to be fine.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s Coulson.

“ _Barnes is awake again, and he seems more with it. I’d like to talk to you both_ ,” he says.

“I’ll be right there,” Steve says, standing up. He pauses in the doorway on his way out, looking back.

“I hope your friend is alright,” he tells the woman. She smiles, her lips pressed together, almost looking amused.

“I think he’ll pull through,” she says and pauses. “I’m glad your friend is better.”

Steve smiles and nods goodbye before heading off to Bucky’s room.

*

Coulson waits until Steve arrives before he starts filling them in. Bucky’s feeling more alert, which probably means they’re weaning him off the opiates. That’s good. Steve must have mentioned something; he knows how much Bucky hates them.

“Any word on Widow or Hawkeye?” Steve asks immediately.

Coulson shakes his head. “We’ve had people watching the airports, but no sign of them. Not that we know what they look like.” He gives a self-deprecating smile before turning to Bucky. “You didn’t get a good look?”

“He was standing in front of the sun,” Bucky says. “Nothing but a shadow.” Coulson doesn’t look happy, but he doesn’t look surprised.

“And Widow?”

“She was in the room. I didn’t get a good look inside.”

“We’re analysing the audio footage to see whether we can get any good voice prints,” Coulson tells them. “With any luck we’ll have picked up something from her.”

“Hawkeye saw me planting the bugs. She knew where they were,” Bucky points out.

“Yes, but she may not have been able to avoid them.”

“What about the arrows?” Steve asks. Coulson’s face tightens, and Bucky has a feeling he knows what’s coming.

“There’s been a slight problem with the arrows,” Coulson admits.

“What kind of problem?” Steve asks.

“The arrows were collected onsite by a SHIELD operative. They were logged into evidence, but somewhere en route to the jet they were mislaid.”

“Mislaid?” Steve asks. “How?”

“We’re not sure,” Coulson says. “We’re working on it.”

Bucky can’t help it, he laughs, which brings a wave of pain to his stomach.

“Don’t tear your stitches,” Steve says, and Bucky shakes his head.

“Coulda told you they wouldn’t let you get your hands on those,” Bucky says. His voice is a little slurry, but clear enough. “Anything else?”

“We ID:d the man that they were targeting and we believe their presence at the spa was a coincidence. He’s not our guy.”

“A coincidence?” Steve asks. He doesn’t seem convinced.

“Yes. The man who died was a known drug and gun runner with close ties to the Red Room. We think that this one was personal for them.”

“What about Rio?” Bucky asks.

“As far as we can tell, they never arrived in Rio. So either that was a decoy and Dubai was the planned destination all along or what happened here had an effect on them as well. You say Hawkeye was under fire, it’s possible he was injured. We’re checking hospitals.”

Coulson fills them in on the rest of the effects of the mission and then leaves to check on whatever it is Coulson does when he’s not looking at Bucky and Steve like they make his life more difficult.

With Coulson out of the way, Bucky can address something that’s been bugging him. “He stuck around,” he says. Steve looks at him in question and Bucky realises that his logic might not be so easy to follow, that maybe Steve’s got other questions in his head. “Hawkeye. He could have gone. He’d hit the target. His job was done and he stuck around to back me up.”

“I don’t know,” Steve admits. He looks a bit lost. “We can’t trust him.”

“He saved my life.” Bucky says and Steve sighs. “I know they’re the bad guys, but he saved my life. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Steve’s face is screwed up in thought. “I guess we’re just going to have to catch them so you can ask him.” He frowns then, the confusion gone abruptly. “I can’t believe that they got the arrows.” The frustrated look on his face makes Bucky chuckle again.

“Stop making me laugh!” Bucky groans as the pain hits again. Steve glares at him. “Don’t look at me like that. Of course he got his arrows back, they’re _his arrows_.”

“Buck?” Steve prompts

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “He makes them himself, right? They’re like his fingerprints or like your drawings or something. You don’t just leave them lying around.”

“You’re telling me you don’t want to get your hands on one of them?” Steve asks. The door opens and the same nurse from last time Bucky was awake comes back in; he’s still damn fine to rest your eyes on, and Bucky smiles at him, letting his gaze linger.

“Of course I want to get my hands on one. I’d give my left arm for one of them.” There’s a small huff of laughter from the nurse and Bucky winks at him, but Steve just looks disapproving. Well, at least the nurse appreciates Bucky’s humour. “Too soon?” he asks Steve, who glares.

“You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“I’m hilarious,” Bucky tells him. He turns to the nurse. “Tell him I’m hilarious.”

“You’re hilarious,” the nurse says, deadpan, reading Bucky’s chart. “How are you doing today?”

“I’m doin’ fine, how are you?” Bucky asks. Lying half dead in a bed isn’t the best look for him, but he’s going to do his best. He pulls out his most charming smile and manages to get the nurse looking at him with what are a very nice pair of blue eyes. Hospital’s got something going for it then, Bucky supposes.

“I’m good,” the nurse says, sounding professional, but there’s a quirk around his lips that’s a little bit less so. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I see you’re being moved tomorrow?”

“Yeah, back to the States,” Steve says. “We need to get someone to look at his other arm.”

“I don’t suppose any of the doctors here are really qualified for that; they’re more about scalpels than soldering irons,” the nurse says. “Well, everything looks good here, so I’m going to go, then,” he says and sets Bucky’s chart down.

“What? No spongebath?” Bucky asks before the guy can walk out the door.

“Not today,” the nurse replies. “Ask me again the next time you see me.” He winks and disappears into the corridor and out of Bucky’s life. Cockblocked by his best friend. Again. He groans and drops his head back to stare at the ceiling. Steve’s laughing.

“Now I know you’re going to be fine,” Steve says. “Flirting with the nurses.”

“Nothin’ ventured, nothin’ gained,” Bucky points out. “Now come on, punk. What have you been up to while I’ve been out? Wringing your hands by my bedside? I hope you convinced a nurse of your own to let you sob manly tears onto her shoulder.”

“Shut up.”

*

Clint bins the scrubs, humming to himself as he thinks about Bucky’s spongebath line. The guy’s lucky he’s got such a pretty face because his chat-up skills leave something to be desired.

Nat’s got a motorbike by the back entrance and he quickly zips up the bike jacket she gives him, trying to ignore the heat beating down on their backs.

“What? No comments or mocking?” he asks. She shakes her head. That’s weird. She’d usually be at him about visiting a SHIELD agent’s bedside, and she must still be pissed that he put himself at risk for Bucky.

“Not today.” She hands him a helmet as well. “You did the right thing.”

By the time the words have registered fully, he’s already got the helmet on and she’s kicking the engine into life.

He wonders what brought her round.

*


	5. Mumbai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Clint and Natasha take a break in Mumbai for a little R&R, Clint gets into some trouble. Natasha has to team up with SHIELD to help him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's back. I told you it would be. And now the whole thing's betaed, so I just have to check it over and post it.
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNINGS: This chapter contains some torture.**
> 
>  
> 
> Betaing was done by the lovely dapperanachronism, and GoodIdeaAtTheTime (who isn't even in this fandom). They are both wonderful people and I do not deserve them.
> 
> Also, many thanks go to everyone who has commented and kudosed. You've been great and really kicked my arse when it needed kicking. I read all your comments and I love them. I am just terrible at replying to things and I never know what to say.

It’s been a bit dull for the last month. Of course, Nat would claim that it’s been relaxing, but they’re going to have to agree to disagree on that one.

They missed the job in Rio, but Clint’s not too worried. They’ve got enough funds to last them and neither he nor Nat has a problem getting what they need when they need it, by one method or another. They’ll be okay, but apparently Dubai spooked some people, because they’ve only had one offer since and it wasn’t the kind of job they take, which means it’s been one very long month since Dubai.

“Stop moping. I’m sure he’ll be back again,” Nat says from where she’s reading on the bed. The book’s in a language Clint can’t read, which probably means she thinks he’d tease her about it if he knew what it was. Or perhaps it just means she wanted to read something different.

Clint keeps his attention on his new arrowhead. He needs a new tracking arrow, since the last one (and the van it was attached to) ended up at the bottom of the Nile two months ago, and he’s been meaning to make another one ever since.

He should probably make more than one, actually. They end up being surprisingly useful. You’d think more people would notice a flashing arrow attached to their car, and yet… The only problem with them is that they’re really fiddly to make, especially when you’ve only got the flickering bulb of a one-star hotel light to work with.

They’re going low scale this week: peeling wallpaper and mysterious stains. Nat’s using Clint’s jacket as a barrier between her and the comforter. She turns her nose up at the funniest things, considering last week they were wading through a sewer covered in pig blood, but today she’s having problems with hotel sheets.

She’s swishing her leg back and forth. It would be coquettish if he didn’t know her, but as it is, he knows that all it really means is she wants his attention.

Clint bends his head down to examine the wiring on the arrowhead a little more closely. Too much solder and you can really throw the balance off. She’s going to have to work harder than that if she wants to play this game. Clint can ignore anything if he puts his mind to it. He’s a sniper. He once sat with three wasps crawling on his face for two hours while he waited to take a shot, and one of them had stung him on the nose – he’d still made the shot. Nat’s little attention-seeking endeavour doesn’t even register.

Clint has never realised how aggressively someone can turn pages, before. It’s not like she’s even turning them fast, or violently, she’s just making very sure that he can hear every ruffle. He contemplates turning off his hearing aids, but that would be a sign of weakness. Nat would leap on it like a wolf. He checks his home-made wiring diagram instead. His handwriting is terrible. Does that say these two wires _must_ be connected or they must _not_ be connected?

Nat’s next play is the humming. It’s in tune and quite pleasant, but she’s judged the volume and pitch so that his hearing aids can only pick up two out of every three notes.

Clint hesitates, losing his place. He tries to cover it up, but it’s too late. Nat senses weakness and she pounces.

“You’re moping,” she says, swinging herself up into a cross-legged position, still keeping his jacket between her and the bedspread.

“I’m not moping, I’m concentrating.”

“We’re in Mumbai. You love Mumbai, but you haven’t left the hotel room since we got here.”

Clint does love Mumbai. It’s a huge, sprawling, beautiful mess, full of people and smells. Everyone’s going somewhere and everyone’s got something to say, often in a language Clint doesn’t understand. His Hindi’s passable, but he’s by no means fluent, and there are hundreds of other languages being spoken.

“I need new arrows,” he tells her. It’s true, but mostly he just hasn’t felt like going out. The city’s lost a bit of its sparkle, or maybe it’s Clint that’s lost the sparkle. He just feels tired.

“You always need new arrows,” Nat says. “You’re moping.”

“Maybe I just like the atmosphere in here.”

Nat looks around at the room: the walls that had probably once been a colour other than beige, the broken shutters and the flickering light. Clint can’t really argue the point.

“Fine. I’m moping! Everyone’s entitled to a bit of a mope now and then,” he shrugs. It’s easier just to agree with her. “I’ll be over it in a few days. I usually am.” Nat wraps her arms around his shoulders and rests her head next to his.

“Come out for dinner,” she says.

“I’ve got…”

“The arrows will wait,” she slides a hand down his arm to take his hand and tugs him up onto his feet.

“Aw, Nat. Come on. I’m almost finished.” Clint isn’t even going to pretend that he’s not whining.

“You need to eat.”

*

Mumbai is exactly like Clint left it, big, bold, and bustling. He lets Nat lead the way as she seems to have a place in mind, and lets his mind wander as they duck through alleyways and hurry between vehicles on the streets. The city is full of people, with distant relatives and tourists piling in to fill up all the non-existent spaces. Clint’s hearing aids mostly just blur with the overload of voices, but when someone’s near enough he can make out English in a dozen different accents, Japanese, Spanish, French and Russian, as well as all the Indian languages he can’t really distinguish.

Nat grabs them some food from a street vendor and Clint scoops Pav Bhaji from a plastic tub with a scrap of bread. They don’t stop, though, apparently food wasn’t the only reason she dragged him away from his arrows, not that Clint had ever thought it was. Nat’s got so many layers of ulterior motives, if he ever finds her doing exactly what she says he’s going to run for cover.

They duck through a doorway and into a building. It seems like a block of flats, with the walls painted in a shade that isn’t quite orange and isn’t quite pink. They head straight up to the roof, Nat trusting that he’ll follow her, so he does.

Maybe she’s just taking him to a roof because she knows he likes it better up high, with a little distance between him and the bustle on the streets. But why this building? Why this roof? Nat has a reason for everything.

They emerge onto the rooftop and it’s like the top has lifted off the world. There’s space to breathe and space to see. It’s not the highest point around, but it’s high enough that if he looks down he can see the currents in the crowd, the ebb and flow of people. He can see the van stopped in the street so its driver can argue with a cyclist and the way that sends a shockwave of slowness out across the streets.

Clint follows Nat over to the edge and sits down to swing his feet over open air. He looks around to see what he can see. Nat brought him here for a reason. She wants him to see something, but she won’t say what. Everything is a test with her. He has to find his own answer.

He tracks the lines of sight. Something specific to this rooftop. He discounts the street, it moves too fast and Nat had led them straight here, so it’s something permanent. The windows of the building opposite seem like the best shot. It’s got a sign down by the door that claims it’s a hotel. There are three stars under the stylised lotus flower, so it has aspirations of being a step above the place where he and Nat have holed up, but she wouldn’t bring him here just to discuss an upgrade.

Which means it’s probably something in the hotel… probably.

He looks through the windows, waiting for something to catch his eye, and it does. Fourth floor, one lower than where they’re sitting, sixth window from the right. He sees a familiar head of blonde hair over the top of a sofa. But where…

A metal arm comes into view, holding a glass of something.

“Guess they managed to fix it up, then,” Clint says, though he knows he’s grinning like a lunatic.

“Guess they did,” Nat agrees. She’s smiling too, he can hear it in her voice. It even sounds genuine, but Clint doesn’t look away to see, he’s too busy watching the window. Clint doesn’t ask how she knew where to find them, doesn’t ask how she knew they were even in town. She knew and that’s enough. He kicks his legs against the side of the building and finally tears his gaze away to look at her. She’s got a strange little smile on her face, like she’s pleased with herself.

Clint frowns, because last he knew she was exasperated by his strange interest (she called it an infatuation) with the SHIELD agents. But here she is presenting them to him like a gift. Come to think of it, she hasn’t said a word about how stupid he was in Dubai since they left the hospital. Usually he’s pretty good at reading her these days – since that very nearly disastrous misunderstanding in Beijing – but he’s missing something here. What’s her play?

“How did they find us?” he asks. No one knows they’re in town apart from them and Dheeraj, and he’s been working with Clint for years.

“We come here often enough that SHIELD must have noticed a pattern. It makes sense to keep an eye on the place. We’d show up eventually.” It goes without saying that that pattern will have to change. Nat’s probably already set up a plan. She’s good like that.

Which means Clint can set up some plans of his own. He grins at her, kicks out his feet again until his legs are sticking right out straight, and feels the wheels start turning in his head.

“You’re about to do something ridiculous again, aren’t you?” she says. They’ve got two days before Clint is supposed to meet Dheeraj. Clint’s got nothing but time, and suddenly his tracking arrows seem a lot less important. Of course he’s going to do something ridiculous. Strangely, Nat doesn’t seem opposed to the idea.

*

Two days in Mumbai and not a hint of Hawkeye or the Widow. No mysterious arrow-induced deaths, no daring heists by a shadowy femme fatale. But SHIELD swears the intelligence is good, and from what Bucky’s seen of it, it checks out. Problem is, Mumbai’s a big city and, when you’re searching for someone you’ve never seen, it might as well be the whole universe.

Steve’s restless again. He doesn’t do well without action. He’d refused to take on any small jobs while Bucky had been recovering and Coulson had taken Bucky to one side to tell him Steve was racking up worryingly high numbers of hours in the gym. Apparently accounts have had to set aside a part of the budget specifically for gym equipment Steve Rogers breaks because he doesn’t remember his own strength.

Mumbai has them both twitchy; there are too many people, too many different sensations. Every breath is a cacophony of scents. And there’s nothing to do but chase down maybes and crazy ideas, playing a game of ‘if I were an international assassin, where would I hide?’

Bucky’s bored, and he knows that’s dangerous, he knows what creeps in when his mind takes time off. Steve’s got an increasing need to blow off steam and Bucky sort of wants someone to die, just so he can _move_.

The knock on the door is like the bang of a starting pistol. It comes while Steve’s pacing his third circle into the hotel’s already thin carpet. He springs into action to answer it, while Bucky leaps up, his gun coming to his hand as easily as a thought. At least Steve has remembered to take his own gun this time, he’s still not used to the level of constant paranoia you have to live under when you’re chasing world class assassins. Though Bucky’s pretty sure that Hawkeye’s not planning on killing them any time soon, he wouldn’t put anything past the Widow. He’s read the Red Room files and some of them make his time with HYDRA seem like a walk on the beach.

“Buck,” Steve calls. He sounds confused. “Did you order a pizza?”

“No.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong room,” Steve tries, but the man just keeps saying ‘no’ and pushes past him and into the room. Bucky’s gun is in his hand, the safety off, but the guy all but ignores him.

“Pizza for James Barnes,” he says, pronouncing Bucky’s name carefully in his broad accent. “He said you would not know it was coming. He said it was a surprise.” The delivery guy sets the pizza down and holds up his hands. “I don’t ask questions. I just take the pizza where the pizza has to go.” He backs out of the room. “It’s your pizza now. Enjoy.” And he hurries away.

Bucky and Steve stare at the box as though it’s an IED. For all Bucky knows, it might be.

They almost jump out of their skins when Bucky’s phone buzzes to announce the arrival of a text message. He keeps his eyes on the pizza as he grabs his phone and reads the screen. Unknown number.

“ _Hope you like pepperoni. Welcome back, Agent Barnes. We missed you. Glad you’re not dead._ ” He reads out, turning to look at Steve, who stares back.

“You don’t think…” he pauses. Bucky shrugs, because he doesn’t see who else it could be. His phone buzzes again.

“ _This is Hawkeye, by the way. Black Widow sends her love._ ” He reads again, expanding the abbreviations and heart emoji into words. Steve doesn’t have a thing to say. Bucky’s phone buzzes again. Apparently Hawkeye’s feeling talkative.

“ _By which I mean she’s not actively planning to kill you right now_.” Buzz.

“ _Or Steve. Hi Steve!_ – There’s an exclamation mark,” Bucky feels obliged to say. He turns the phone around so Steve can see. Steve looks, but his face has already reached maximum surprise, so it doesn’t change.

“Can we trace that?” Steve asks, getting his face under control as soon as his brain catches up with what’s happening. “Can you?” Bucky’s already reaching for his laptop. “I’m going to phone this in.”

He’s halfway through running the relevant software when his phone buzzes again and Steve looks up from his call with Coulson.

“What does it say?” he asks.

“ _Black Widow says I should tell you that we definitely haven’t poisoned the pizza. We haven’t. 100% pizza. Cross my heart._ And then a smiley face emoji and a pizza emoji,” Bucky says. Steve relays that.

“Coulson says he’s going to monitor your phone.”

The tracking software on the laptop beeps at Bucky and a pop-up appears in a red outlined box to glare balefully at him.

“Sorry, no information could be found,” he tells Steve, glaring right back at the offending pop-up.

On the other end of the line, SHIELD is apparently buzzing as much as Bucky’s phone.

“We need confirmation of identity,” Coulson says as soon as Steve puts him on speakerphone. “You should engage. Ask for proof. We should be able to use this to our advantage. He let you live in Dubai and now he’s reaching out. He clearly feels some sort of connection to you. If we do this right we can get the best result.” Bucky picks up his phone and contemplates his reply. There’s a twinge in his chest that feels a little bit like guilt, but it’s ridiculous. This is his job. “Have you sent the message?”

“Not yet, not yet, I’m thinking.” Bucky snarls. He’s not sure why it’s taking so long, it should be a simple enough message to write, but he’s not sure whether he should mention what happened in Dubai or not.

“Agent Barnes.”

“Almost,” he says and, ignoring Steve’s frown, starts typing. “Done.”

“What did you say?” Coulson asks. Bucky frowns. Although he knew he’d have to read it out, it feels weird telling his boss.

“ _Thanks for the pizza and for Dubai. But how do I know you’re really who you say you are?_ ” Bucky recites and Coulson gives a hum of agreement.

“Smart move, mentioning Dubai,” he says and Bucky tries to look as though it was part of his master plan and not just honest gratitude. He shouldn’t bother, Steve sees right through him anyway.

It’s a few minutes before he gets a reply and it’s in the form of a picture. There are no distinguishing features, just today’s New York Times with an arrow head in front of it.

“ _Good enough?_ ”

“I see it,” Coulson says. He’s apparently got access to Bucky’s phone now, which isn’t creepy at all. And Bucky makes a note to pick him and Steve up some nice, new, private, non-SHIELD phones at some point. “You should reply. Try and build up a rapport. This feels like it might be the chance we need.”

“Yes sir,” Bucky says. It’s easier to say than anything else.

“I’ll keep monitoring and we’ll try to track down the number from here. If we come up with something, I’ll let you know.” He hands up without saying goodbye.

Bucky looks down at his phone again.

“You gonna reply?” Steve asks. He sounds careful, like he’s afraid Bucky’s going to bite his head off.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Just gotta think of what to say.” He shrugs. “The whole of SHIELD is watching.”

“Just Coulson,” Steve assures him. “And I don’t think that’s why you’re worried about what to say.” Bucky gives him his blankest look. “You know what you’re like about this guy, Buck. I wasn’t going to say anything in front of Coulson, but are you sure you can handle this?”

“Of course I can handle this,” Bucky says, though it’s a complete lie. It feels a lot like stepping off a cliff. “It’s a phone conversation. He’s our mark. It’s easy. It’s just a conversation about pizza.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got this… _thing_ about this guy,” Steve says.

Bucky rolls his eyes. Steve doesn’t know shit.

“Remember how wrong you were the last time you thought I had a thing for someone?” he asks, referring to a guy in the bar from over Christmas, pretty sure that’ll shut Steve up. It doesn’t, of course, because Bucky left all his good luck behind when he joined the goddamn army.

“To be fair, I thought that he had a thing for you, not the other way round. This is different. I’ve seen you like this before, over girls and guys, so don’t deny there’s something.”

“I’ve never met him,” Bucky points out, though it’s not a denial. “I don’t know what he looks like.”

“Looks aren’t everything,” Steve replies. He’s noticed the lack of denial as well.

“This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with the guy,” Bucky says. “Some text messages and that one time he shot me with an arrow are hardly a good basis for a relationship.” Steve raises an eyebrow and Bucky sighs, he walked right into that one.

“Look, you know I was a sniper back before…” Steve nods. ‘Before’ only means one thing to them these days. “I was good. Really good. Had the best damn record of anyone currently serving.” Steve nods, he’s seen Bucky’s file, of course. Everyone’s seen the file, Bucky’s whole life written out in black and white and available in SHIELD archives if you’ve got the clearance. He shakes his head and gets back to the point. “This guy. He pulls off shots I would never have even considered… with a bow and arrow. He’s just…” Bucky frowns. “I respect him.”

“Hero worship,” Steve suggests.

“No!” Bucky says immediately. “I don’t think he’s a hero. I just… admire his skill. Professionally.”

Steve doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it slide and Bucky turns his attention back to his phone.

“ _OK, I believe you. Where are you?_ ”

A few minutes pass before he gets another picture in return. A close up of a tourist tat souvenir, ‘I heart Mumbai’ on a keychain.

“ _Wish you were here. Oh wait – you are!_ ”

Bucky smiles. He can do this. Though he wonders what Coulson’s endgame is. He has the distinct impression that the man isn’t telling them everything.

*

You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Nat says. She’s lounging in the café seat, watching the world from behind large sunglasses while sipping her tea. Clint just grins. “You know he’s only playing along to lure you out, right?”

“I know,” Clint agrees equably. “And yes, I know SHIELD is monitoring everything. I keep adding things in to send them on wild goose chases. I sent him a text saying ‘I can see you’ earlier.” Nat raises an eyebrow. They haven’t seen anything of Barnes or Rogers today, but it’s not like SHIELD knows that. Nat snorts and smiles indulgently.

Clint downs his coffee far too fast and scalds his mouth, but it doesn’t dull his mood. The sun is high, the breeze is refreshing and he feels like he just hit three bullseyes at once, blindfolded while doing a backflip.

As soon as the thought occurs to him, he frowns, because he knows what this means. Something’s going to go wrong. He takes a deep breath and shakes the feeling off. For now he might as well make the most of it.

*

Bucky’s been led on a merry chase through Mumbai. The SHIELD team who are monitoring those messages have been sending him all the information they’re gathering from Hawkeye’s messages and pictures. So far he’s seen almost every part of the city, as far as he can tell, and he’s walked over twenty miles.

Even Steve’s enthusiasm for movement is dulled. Finally, he just drags Steve into a bar and orders them both beers. He pulls out his phone and sends one last text. This time the text he receives back is from Coulson. He snorts out loud and Steve raises an eyebrow.

“Coulson just wanted me to know that calling the assassin a dick might not be the best idea I’ve ever had.”

“The assassin sent us on a wild goose chase all day,” Steve says, gulping down his beer and ordering another. “He is a dick.”

Bucky taps out a new text message.

 _Steve thinks you’re a dick too._ He sends it before he can think about it, then realises that went to the wrong number. He drops his head down onto the bar, swearing.

“What?” Steve asks, looking alarmed, but too tired to do anything about it.

“I just told Coulson you think he’s a dick.”

Steve gapes at him, then splutters, spitting beer all over the bar. Bucky quickly types an explanation to Coulson and sends the message to the right person.

He makes it halfway through his beer before he gets a reply. It’s not from Coulson.

_I thought you’d enjoy the exclusive Hawkeye guided tour. I’ve got a few more stops left._

Bucky downs the last of his beer and orders another. The drinks are definitely going on expenses as mental health necessities. When his new drink arrives, he takes a picture of it and sends it with the caption _Beer time_.

That gets him a reply from Coulson, which Bucky ignores in favour of sending Hawkeye another text.

 _Tell you what, I’ll buy you and your girlfriend one if you come and get them_.

The reply is quicker than Bucky had expected.

_Not my girlfriend. And I really wish I could. Maybe next time._

_Guess I’ll just drink yours_ , Bucky replies.

*

Clint wakes up and sends a good morning text to Bucky, then goes to find his shopping list. The plan for the day is shopping for both him and Nat, but not at the same place. Nat wants to top up her wardrobe. She’s got to work to stay as chameleon-like as she does. Clint, on the other hand, is heading for Dheeraj’s to pick up some arrow supplies and a new pair of hearing aids.

Dheeraj can get his hands on anything. Clint’s known him since he first ended up in Mumbai by accident when he was eighteen. The guy had practically herded him into his home and fed him until Clint could no longer see his ribs through his skin. He’s reliable and discreet and Clint wouldn’t trust his ears to anyone else. It’s not everyone who’d invite a kid into their home, especially on their side of the law.

Nat quite likes the guy, but she has her own suppliers, so she tends to leave Clint and Dheeraj to their catching up. Dheeraj’s genial attitude makes her uncomfortable. She can’t handle affection from strangers, not without waiting for the knife in her back. Plus Clint apparently has terrible taste, so she never takes him on her shopping trips, unless she’s buying clothes for him.

He takes his morning coffee with some extra coffee and a coffee chaser, because it’s way too early to be awake. But Dheeraj is an early morning sort of person, so Clint pulls on his leather jacket and his sunglasses, grabs the bag with his equipment and designs in – Dheeraj sometimes has suggestions, and the man’s usually right – and waves goodbye to a half asleep Nat, who stretches like a cat.

He takes a picture of a dog on his way and sends it to Barnes, because everyone appreciates a picture of a dog.

He arrives at Dheeraj’s workshop a little early, with breakfast tucked under his arm.

The peephole opens so Clint grins and waggles his fingers in greeting. Dheeraj is expecting him. Bucky’s not the only person he’s been texting.

The door swings open and Dheeraj appears. There are a few more grey hairs in his beard and a few more wrinkles on his forehead. How long has it been since Clint last saw him? Too long, probably. Assassin isn’t really a job that comes with an easy schedule.

They hug and Dheeraj leads him through to the back room.

“What can I do for you today, my friend?” Dheeraj asks before sighing at Clint’s wide grin. “I see you have more good ideas. Have you ever found a purpose for the boomerang arrow?”

“It’ll come in handy one day,” Clint says easily. “This time it’s pretty simple. I was thinking a flash arrow and a sonic arrow.” He fishes the designs out of his bag and starts to explain his ideas.

Dheeraj seems a little distracted, which Clint dismisses, everyone’s allowed an off day. Clint’s enthusiasm more than makes up for it, and, even distracted, Dheeraj has suggestions.

It’s been ages since he had a chance to talk to someone who actually enjoys this part of the business as much as Clint does. Nat sees the arrows as a means to an end; she doesn’t understand the beauty of the perfectly designed arrow: how to get the balance and weight right, working out how it will fly through the air, how much force will be needed to get it to do what it needs to do.

He thinks that maybe Bucky might get it, that little snatch of conversation he’d heard in the hospital in Dubai implied that Bucky has an idea of what the arrows actually are. But that’s a conversation he’ll probably never get to have, unless he’s in cuffs and they’re sitting on either side of an interview table, this time when he’s using his real name. It’s a pity, there aren’t many people who would understand, even fewer Clint trusts.

There’s another knock on the door as Clint’s halfway through describing his half-baked idea for a putty arrow and Clint takes the time to check his phone.

Barnes has replied to his dog picture.

 _Reminds me of Officer Whiskers_.

Clint blinks and rereads the text because Barnes has watched Dog Cops. Sure, his recovery probably left him with a lot of free time to fill, but he could have done anything. But instead he’s watched Dog Cops. That leaves Clint with a warm feeling filling up his chest. OK. So maybe Nat’s right: Clint has a problem.

There’s no time for the warm fuzzies, though.

Russian voices outside – Clint can’t think of any Russians who’d be happy to see him.

He reaches for his bow, nocks an arrow and waits.

His breath eases into that low, slow rhythm that always comes before taking a shot. As fast as his mind’s racing, his heartbeat is steady and calm.

When Dheeraj comes back through the door he’s got a guilty look on his face and he’s escorted by two large Russians. Clint takes a moment to mourn a lost friendship – because… Dheeraj, no – but that doesn’t stop him putting an arrow through the thug on the right’s eye.

“I am sorry,” Dheeraj says. “They took my daughter.”

Clint gets it, he does. He knows Dheeraj’s daughter. He met her when she was five years old. Lakshmi is the light of Dheeraj’s life and Clint can’t blame him.

“They will kill her,” Dheeraj says. “If I didn’t help them get you, they would kill her.”

Both Clint and Dheeraj know that Lakshmi is probably already dead. But probably is not definitely.

Some more Russians enter the room and Clint knows what this is about. The guy at the back, Clint recognises him. Unlike the others, he’s dressed in a suit and Clint’s seen his face in photographs and Nat sees it in her nightmares.

Clint slides his phone off the table and into his bag behind his leg.

These guys aren’t going to kill him, not yet anyway. He’s not who they want. He’s the bait.

“Hello Lukin,” Clint says. “I’ve got an arrow with your name on it.”

“What a coincidence, I have a cell with yours,” Lukin replies easily. “Will you come quietly?” Clint laughs, because he knows he’s going with them, but the idea that he’s not going to put up a fight is just stupid.

This is the Red Room. He’s going to take every one of them down.

The fight is furious and confused. There are Russians on every side of him, which at least means that he’s got a lot of options.

Clint ups his body count to four before the sheer numbers in the tight space overwhelm him, He is forced to his knees as Lukin comes up to stand over him.

“You will not be needing those,” Lukin says. There is barely an accent to his English. He is looking at Clint’s ears, making Clint’s eyes dart to Dheeraj because there’s no one else who could have told him. “From now on you hear only what I want you to hear,” Lukin continues as he reaches to pull out Clint’s hearing aids. The world goes quiet.

He says something else that’s now nothing more than an auditory blur, probably taunting, and Clint’s sort of grateful he can’t hear him. Why do the bad guys always like the sound of their own voices?

They drag Clint out and he looks back at Dheeraj who’s crying and shaking. He knows this will be the last time he sees his old friend and he says goodbye, but he can’t hear his own voice, so he doesn’t know whether it’s too quiet or too loud… or if it even sounds like words at all.

He hopes Nat kills Dheeraj quickly. He’s not to blame.

There’s a sharp pain in Clint’s neck and the world fades away.

*

Clint wakes up in silence. His hands are bound above his head, shackles from the feel of it and his legs are tied too, about shoulder-width apart, to what feels like a metal mesh.

Bad sign. There’s only one reason people tie other people to metal things. Clint hates electric shocks. They’re one of Nat’s favourites. She’s got a whole bracelet of pulses that’ll knock a man on his ass, but Clint has a feeling this is going to be worse.

He opens his eyes.

Lakshmi is across from him. She’s standing in a cage, looking terrified and holding on to the bars as she stares out at Clint. He tries to smile reassuringly at her, which only makes her look even worse.

He sees her lips move and realises that she’s saying something. He can’t tell if it’s English or Hindi. It could be Esperanto for all he can work out. With the drugs still playing hide and seek with his mind he’s got no hope reading her lips no matter what language she’s speaking.

“No ears,” he tells her in Hindi and English and she nods, switching to sign language immediately. He’s known the girl since she was five. He’d taught her himself, but he’s never been so proud of her.

The first word she signs is ‘father’ and Clint just shakes his head. He doesn’t know exactly what happened to Dheeraj after they knocked him out, but he knows her father isn’t going to survive this. Nat doesn’t deal well with betrayal.

Lakshmi breathes deeply, her eyes closed, then nods and straightens her shoulders.

“How do we get out of here?” she asks.

Clint wishes he knew. He knows Nat is coming, but he’d prefer it if Lukin wasn’t here waiting for her. Clint is the bait. He doesn’t want her walking into this trap.

“I’m working on it,” he says, rather than admit to the girl that he can’t see a chance. She doesn’t look convinced, but she looks calm, and that’s what matters.

“Work fast.”

*

Clint has a plan. It involves staying alive long enough to dance on Lukin’s grave.

They run another jolt of electricity through him. The only mercy is that he can’t hear himself scream. Lakshmi doesn’t have that luck.

*

Bucky is not worried. He’s not. Because that would be weird. He’s not worried.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve checked your phone in the last five minutes,” Steve says. He’s reading through reports again, looking for signs of their elusive assassins.

Not that their assassins were elusive until today. But Hawkeye hasn’t sent a thing to Bucky since the picture of the dog this morning.

“Maybe he just doesn’t like that show,” Steve suggests. Bucky glares at him.

“He’d still reply.”

“You’ve only been speaking to him for two days,” Steve points out. “He’s probably busy assassinating people.”

“You are taking this far too lightly,” Bucky says. “An international assassin has gone missing and you’re not concerned?”

“Technically he was always missing,” Steve says. He’s not being helpful and Bucky points this out. Steve just smirks, the little shit. “You’re acting like a teenager whose boyfriend hasn’t called.” Bucky ignores him. It feels like something’s wrong. He’s not been leading the conversation with Hawkeye. He’s only sent one message for every three he’s received and the sudden radio silence is alarming. Bucky has no idea what the Widow and Hawkeye were even doing in Mumbai and the life of an international assassin isn’t exactly safe. There are any number of people who must be gunning for the pair of them: rivals, associates of people they’ve killed, anyone who wants to prevent them from doing what they do.

If Hawkeye’s dead then that should be the end of a problem. Case closed. Move on. But it doesn’t feel like that.

Fine. He’ll admit it. He likes the guy, and the idea of him being dead is not one that appeals. He’s not got a crush, like Steve’s implying though. He just thinks that maybe, if the world were a different place, if Hawkeye wasn’t the bad guy and Bucky wasn’t a SHIELD agent, maybe he’d be good person to get a drink with. That’s it.

His phone buzzes on the table and Bucky reaches for it – maybe a bit too fast, if Steve’s snigger is anything to go by.

_What is SHIELD’s position on Aleksander Lukin?_

It’s not what he expected, though Bucky would be hard pressed to say what he had expected. Maybe a ‘sorry, work’s keeping me busy’ or a ‘whoops, left my phone on a dead body’.

Aleksander Lukin. The name is familiar and he says it to Steve, who frowns and looks down at the reports in front of him, searching for something. Bucky’s memory returns before Steve finds what he’s looking for – Lukin is a key figure in the Red Room.

Steve’s phone rings.

“Coulson,” Steve says before putting it on speaker.

“We want Lukin,” Coulson says. “There’s a blanket dead or alive order on him for all agents level six and above. He is a top priority target, superseding all others. You are authorised to use any means necessary. If you get a chance at Lukin. You take it.”

“Hawkeye and the Widow?” Steve asks before Bucky gets a chance. He thinks that maybe that’s on purpose, from the look that Steve sends his way.

“Not important if Lukin’s in the area. Ask Hawkeye why he wants to know.”

Bucky sends the question. An answer comes back almost immediately.

 _I have information on his whereabouts. Willing to make a deal_.

“Say yes,” Coulson says immediately. Bucky doesn’t know why Coulson doesn’t just take over the conversation, if he can receive Bucky’s texts, he must be able to send them.

“You don’t want me to play hard to get?” Bucky asks. It seems rash to agree to a deal without knowing what the terms are.

“No. Lukin moves fast. A trail could dry up in a few hours. We’ll deal with the consequences later. Lukin is the priority.”

“I’m not sure I like this,” Steve says. “We have no idea what they’re planning. Making a deal with an enemy-“

“Our enemy’s enemy is our friend,” Coulson says. It’s an overused platitude and not exactly true, but it gets the point across.

“Not always.” Or maybe it doesn’t. Steve has a point, he usually does, but Bucky’s not so sure.

“If there’s one thing we know about Black Widow and Hawkeye it’s that they hate the Red Room. They go out of their way to kill anyone associated with it. Does SHIELD have an issue with Lukin getting an arrow in the chest?”

“SHIELD would consider that an optimal scenario,” Coulson says and Steve looks even more conflicted. But it’s what Bucky suspected. The cleanest solution for them is if Lukin is taken out by someone not associated to the agency. Plausible deniability. A bad guy kills another bad guy, that’s just par for the course. Any important friends of Lukin’s come looking and they can’t find anything but a trail that leads to a freelance assassin and their own turncoat.

Bucky texts back an affirmative before Steve can argue any more. He’s read the files and the world is better off without some people.

A text returns with an address and an instruction to come alone in thirty minutes.

“Go,” Coulson says. “Keep me informed. Remember, Lukin is a very dangerous man. Watch your backs. I’m mobilising every team in the area. If you need back-up, you’ll have it.”

*

The questions start in the third session. Lukin puts his ears back in and has his lackeys tie Clint to a chair. It’s still in full view of Lakshmi and when his hearing aids are switched on again, Clint can just make out the little hitching sobs she’s trying to stifle.

She is alive to keep Clint in line. He is alive to get to Nat.

Lukin’s not Clint’s biggest fan.

“Nice to finally put a smell to the face,” Clint says. “I’ve heard a lot. But don’t worry, it was all bad.” Lukin beckons to a man. He is small and thin, spider-like and spindly with round, old-fashioned glasses. He gives a little cough and places his briefcase on a small table.

Ah, the laying out of the torture implements. Clint’s been here before. Not so often on the other side, though it has been known to happen. Mostly in the position he’s in right now: tied to a chair, waiting for his interrogators to bore him to death. Sometimes it’s been on purpose, the best way to get a mark overconfident is to make them think they’ve won.

Sometimes it’s not so on purpose.

But this isn’t your average torture session. This is the Red Room. They have taken the usual, blunt techniques and sharpened and honed them into something beyond. They taught Nat, sharpened her into a weapon.

Clint is aware that his heart beat is elevated, that his breathing is speeding up, and a cold sweat is prickling over his skin. And they haven’t even shown him the toys yet. He’s better than this. Nat would be disgusted at him.

He forces his breathing down to normal again. He has a reputation too and, in the grand scheme of things, the score is Hawkeye and Black Widow 7, Red Room 0.

“I hear you’re having some personnel issues,” he says. The sound of his voice makes him feel better.

The little man is humming to himself now as he takes the tools out of his case and lays them down reverently. Clint recognises the tune. It is an old Russian song that he’s heard Nat singing under her breath sometimes. He supposes he knows where she learnt it now. He’d always hoped it was a good memory, something from before they had stripped her of everything they could. He is far too naïve for this job.

He’s going to kill the little man first.

But he keeps his eyes glued on Lukin.

“Recruitment must be hard when your people keep dying on you.” Lukin laughs.

“You think your efforts are making a difference? You are trying to empty the ocean with a bucket. It will not work.”

“Depends how big the bucket is.”

“Indeed. But you are not as big as you think you are.”

“Want to take my pants off and see?” Clint replies with a leer. He knows he’s not big. He’s one guy with a bow. Occasionally he gets a chance to make a difference, like with Nat, and he does his best to do what he can with what he’s got. Maybe assassination wasn’t the best career choice, but he’s taken out more bad guys than a lot of the good guys have. He thinks his account is pretty balanced, all in all.

“You confuse me,” Lukin says.

“Is that because I’m not speaking Russian?” Clint asks. “Sorry, you know what us Americans are like.” You don’t give up an advantage like the ability to speak Russian easily. If – when he gets out of here, any information he can get about the Red Room’s plans is worth knowing. He doesn’t know if Lukin knows he speaks Russian, but Clint’s not going to be the one to tell him.

“No, although your accent does grate on my nerves. What is that? Minnesota? Nebraska? Iowa? Somewhere Midwest, the land of fields and boredom.” Clint doesn’t rise to the bait, although a Russian can hardly talk, most of their country isn’t even inhabited, as far as he can tell. Fields and boredom sound pretty good right now, anyway. The fields weren’t the problem with his home.

Lukin’s still talking. What’s the use in being deaf if you still have to listen to assholes?

“What confuses me is Natalia. You are not special in any way I can discern. You are sloppy, untrained, and you lack the determination necessary to be good at your job.”

Clint’s job is hitting things with arrows and he’s very good at that, thank you very much. He has his own personal SHIELD agent hunting him down.

 Shit. Bucky. He wonders if they’ve even noticed that he hasn’t replied. Probably not. They’ve almost certainly got better things to do than think about that, although he’d take a SHIELD rescue over Lukin, any day of the week.

“But somehow you managed to turn Natalia from her true purpose. She should have killed you in seconds. You should have been no more to her than any of the other hundreds of men she has killed. But you were not.” He pauses. “I have always wondered – how?”

Clint doesn’t say anything.

“Do not think that this information is important. It is idle curiosity on my part. The important thing, as always, is the result, and the result is that Natalia is defective. I should thank you for revealing her flaws. But I do wish to satisfy my curiosity, if possible. How did you do it? Is it sex? You are attractive enough, I assume, but I would not have thought Natalia would be swayed by such a worthless thing.”

Honestly, Clint doesn’t know. He’s never asked. All he’d done was talk. It was Nat who had made the decision not to kill him, who had made the decision to trust him, who keeps making that decision every day, even when it seems like the foolish choice. Maybe one day he’ll ask her. Maybe one day she’ll tell him. It’s not important, though.

“Maybe it’s because I treat her like a person, not an object,” he says, spitting the words out.

“I do not believe Natalia betrayed everything she stands for merely because you are polite. You promised her something, or you offered her something.”

“Nah,” Clint shrugs, a movement made difficult by the way his arms are tied. “I don’t have anything to offer anybody. All I’ve got is my bow, my good looks, and my endless wit.”

“I can see you are not willing to co-operate.” Lukin says. No shit, what was he expecting? “I will ask you again after you have had time to consider your answers. The doctor will speak to you now.” He stands aside and the little man comes forward.

“Hello,” he says. Unlike Lukin, his Russian accent is still thick. “This is very exciting. You are going to be our first recipient of a new treatment.”

Clint does not like the sound of that. He really doesn’t. His arms tense and pull, but the bonds are still as firm as ever. The chair seems to be nailed to the floor, so he can’t flip it or break it that way. He’s going to have to find a different method.

Way back, when Clint had first joined the circus, there had been an escapologist. The kind of guy who, for fun, would put on a straightjacket, wrap himself in chains and throw himself in a tank of water. He’d died when Clint was fourteen, while practising a new trick called ‘return from the grave’. As far as Clint knows, he’s still buried out there in the same coffin he’d died in. The circus folk had been a pragmatic bunch. No use taking him out of the thing when they’d just have to put him back in again.

So maybe he wasn’t the best guy to emulate, but he’d taught Clint a couple of tricks, such as it’s all about flexibility, and Clint’s still pretty flexible. More flexible than he looks.

And that gives him an idea.

“I will make a deal with you, Mr Hawk,” the doctor is saying. Clint bets he doesn’t have a real medical degree. Probably one of those certificates you could send off for online. “Because this is an experiment, I need data. I have developed this compound.” He holds up a glass bottle. “Our recruits need training, you understand, but their appearance must not suffer. Their appearance, their bodies, are just as important to their purpose as their other skills. And so many training methods can leave permanent marks. I was tasked with developing a solution.” He gives a small hiccup of laughter. “Ah, I think that is a play on words in English. Because this is a solution in both senses of the word.”

Clint doesn’t respond. He’s not in a punny sort of mood. The doctor looks genuinely dismayed by Clint’s lack of acknowledgement, which elevates him from eccentric to full on crazy on the official Clint Barton mad scientist scale.

You know, when you have a mad scientist scale, it probably means something’s gone horribly wrong in your life. He should reassess his life choices.

But first – escape.

“So my deal is this. I will inject you with differing concentrations of my solution,” he smirks. Clint just rolls his eyes. It wasn’t funny the first time, just let it go. “But I need honest feedback. So I will inject you, you will tell me how you feel, I will record it in my notes and we will continue.” Clint’s about to spit in his face. “If you do not answer honestly, then the results will not work and I will have to move on to a different test subject.” He looks over to where Lakshmi sits in the cage. She has stopped crying and is now glaring at the doctor as though she can make his head explode with the power of her mind. “Do we have a deal, Mr Hawk?”

“It’s Hawkeye,” Clint says. “And yeah, we have a deal.” He still spits in the guy’s face though. It’s not like he can spit-shake with his hands tied behind his back, is it? And this is totally the closest thing. The doctor pulls out a handkerchief and wipes off his face and glasses.

“I see you are the type of person who hides their fear with humour and bluster,” he says, turning to make a note in his notebook. “I will assess the results accordingly.” He packs up a syringe and fills it with different proportions of two liquids and depresses the plunger a little, to clear it of bubbles. “Let us begin. This is a 0.01% solution.”

*

The address in the text message is a café and, when prompted, Steve and Bucky sit at a specific table. Steve’s clearly still uncomfortable with the situation, waiting for the shoe to drop. Bucky’s feeling less confident too, out in the open. He’s been rereading the new messages and there’s something off. He’d assumed the change in tone was just because these were mission-oriented, while the ones before had been casual, but something seems wrong. He relays his suspicions to Coulson.

“Our analysts agree,” Coulson says. “We think you may now be communicating with the Black Widow rather than Hawkeye.”

“What does that mean?” Steve asks, looking around, as though he’d be able to see her if she was anywhere near them.

“We’re not sure. Of the two, what little information we have suggests that Hawkeye would be the one most likely to initiate a deal of this nature. The Widow is more inclined to work alone or, if she does use outside help, she would be more likely to use manipulation or trickery to get it. An outright request for a deal isn’t her style. The only person she’s been known to work with voluntarily is Hawkeye.”

“Does that mean this is a trick?” Bucky asks. He suddenly feels very exposed.

“I don’t know. It seems unlikely that they would try to take you out at this point, when all indications show that they have tolerated your presence until now.”

Bucky’s not sure he likes how much that sounds like his and Steve’s efforts have been a waste of time.

“It’s possible that the Widow was unaware of Hawkeye’s contact with you,” Coulson goes on. “I imagine their relationship must be quite volatile. An action like that could be considered a betrayal.”

“You think she killed Hawkeye and now she’s coming after us?” Steve asks, starting to stand up.

“Sit down, Agent Rogers,” Coulson says and Steve looks around in surprise. “SHIELD has you covered. We have access to real-time satellite footage of your location and you’re being watched by a STRIKE team.”

“She’ll see them,” Bucky says, because now he knows to look for them, he can see them.

“Probably, but with some luck they’ll make her think twice before engaging,” Coulson sounds confident, but Bucky’s sure he could sound confident in the face of the apocalypse. His job is to keep them calm, and it’s a job he’s good at.

“You really want this Lukin guy, huh?” Steve asks, sitting back down.

“Aleksander Lukin is a subhuman, sadistic, narcissistic monster with almost unlimited power. I would not feel unjustified in calling him the scum of the earth. A world without Aleksander Lukin in it is a better world.” Coulson’s voice stays as level as ever.

“I’ve read the files,” Steve says.

“Then you understand SHIELD’s position on this.”

Bucky’s phone buzzes. It’s a text from the number listed as _Hawkeye_.

“ _Envelope under the table to your right. Put them in._ ”

“Do as she says,” Coulson instructs.

Bucky finds the envelope easily enough and opens it with his metal hand. He’s not expecting razor blades, but taking reasonable precautions seems like the best plan. He’s got the advantage of having a limb that’s a lot less vulnerable than the rest of him, he should make the most of it.

Three items fall out onto the table when he shakes the envelope gently. Two earpieces and a USB drive.

He and Steve look at each other, then Steve puts in one of the earpieces with the determined air of someone who really doesn’t want to think about their head exploding. Bucky doesn’t miss the fact that Steve was clearly trying to make sure his was in place before Bucky’s, just in case something went wrong, and he rolls his eyes as he puts his own in. If they’re wired to blow then she’ll be sitting in sight with a radio transmitter and she won’t blow them until they’re both in place.

Bucky switches it on.

“ _Hello boys. I thought this might be easier_.” She sounds serene, but that doesn’t mean a thing. “ _Here’s how this works. You can’t see me. I can see you. I can also see all those big men with guns you brought_.”

“You really thought we’d come alone?” Bucky asks.

“ _No. But tell the STRIKE team to pull back. I’d rather not hurt them. I might need them later._ ”

“We don’t have the authority to do that, and we don’t have contact with them,” Steve says. He’s scanning the area, looking for her.

“ _Maybe not, but Agent Coulson does. I assume he’s still on the line. Ask him to pull them back and tell him I have fond memories of Cuba_.”

Steve relays the message.

“The STRIKE team has been pulled back,” Coulson says. “And the Cuba comment confirms her identity. You’re definitely talking to the Black Widow.” Bucky nods, but doesn’t ask, he’s always thought that there was more to this mission to Coulson than just another pair of assassins that needed hunting down.

“ _Good. They’re withdrawing_.”

“Where’s your partner?” Bucky asks.

“ _You’ll see._ ” Steve raises his eyebrows. “ _Don’t worry about him. All you need to know is I can get you to Lukin_.”

“How?” Steve asks.

“ _The flash drive contains video footage taken by a privately owned security camera earlier today. Lukin is on that footage. I could analyse the video myself, but frankly SHIELD is quicker and a lot less expensive_.”

“If you’re giving us the evidence why do we need you?”

“ _Because I know more about Aleksander Lukin and how his mind works than anyone else you can contact. If you want Lukin, you need me. Without me, you’ll fail. Call me when you have something._ ”

“And what are you going to be doing?”

“ _I have my own leads_ ,” she says and the line goes dead.

*

Alright, so the doctor is slowly climbing his way up Clint’s Mad Scientist scale from creepy towards outright insane. He hasn’t quite made it to the level of the guy who tried to steal Clint’s eyes with a rusty spork that one time, but he’s giving him a run for his money. It might be the way he keeps humming when he’s filling up the syringe. Always that strange little tune. Or maybe it’s how fucking pleased he looks every time Clint screams.

Clint’s come up with new and interesting swear words. The guy is good at his job and there are whole periods of time where Clint’s brain is blank apart from agony.

He’s focusing on two things to get through this. One, Lakshmi is still unhurt. Two, he’s almost managed to wiggle his right foot free. Go Team Hawkeye!

The doctor takes a moment to write down his observations in his notebook, muttering about pupil dilation and violence of movement as the pain ebbs away. The doctor’s lost in his musings and the guards are on the doors outside, meaning that no one sees as Clint manages to pull his foot out.

There’s a screw on the ground, just under the edge of the table. If he reaches, he should be able to pick it up with his toes.

His muscles are shaking. The pain has drained him, but fuck it if he’s going to die at the hands of some guy with a syringe who laughs at his own jokes.

Clint thinks he probably pulls every muscle in his leg, but he picks up the goddamn screw. Now he just needs to decide what he’s going to do with it.

Flexibility is the key.

Clint really hopes he’s not about to do some serious damage to himself. It’s been years since he did anything like this.

He’s really grateful they didn’t think to put a waist strap on the chair, or what he’s about to try would be impossible. As it is, though, all that thrashing around in pain that the kind doctor is currently taking notes about (with recommendable dedication) has given Clint a good idea of his range of movement. It’s going to be painful, but Clint’s recently had reason to rethink his definition of pain.

He pushes his arms down as hard as he can through the restraints, until the top of the chair back is digging hard into his armpits and shoulder blades.

Next it’s time for the pelvic thrust.

And people think the life of an international man of mystery is glamorous.

*

The USB drive comes back clean from the scan and Bucky brings up the video. It’s being synced with SHIELD.

It starts today in the morning and it’s shot from above the front door of a building, looking out into the street. After speeding through a while, a figure appears. It’s a man in a leather jacket, carrying a duffle over his shoulder. He comes from behind the camera, clearly knowing where it is and angling his face away.

He knocks at the door and after a moment, is let in with a hug from whoever opens it.

“That’s not Lukin,” Coulson says.

“No,” Bucky agrees. “That’s Hawkeye.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asks. “You’ve never seen his face.”

“I’ve seen him move. I’ve seen his stance,” Bucky says. He’s positive, though he can’t quite put his finger on why. As soon as they guy had appeared, Bucky had remembered the man on the roof.

“The bag’s got his arrows in,” he says. “It’s him.”

“OK, we’re narrowing down the location of the building. If that is Hawkeye, then it looks like the owner knows him, so we’ll need to speak to him.” Coulson sounds distracted.

“We’re not here for Hawkeye,” Bucky reminds him. “This is about Lukin.”

“Yes, but-“

“And I’m betting the owner’s dead,” Bucky continues. “She wouldn’t have given us access if it would incriminate them.”

“And there’s that,” Steve says, pointing at the screen. A van is pulling up outside the door. Eight men pile out, mostly in anonymous black tactical gear, but one wears a suit. While one of his underlings knocks at the door, the man in the suit looks directly at the camera and smiles. It is a smile Bucky has seen in dozens of photographs today.

“Lukin wants to be seen,” Steve says.

“He wants to be seen by _her_ ,” Bucky adds.

The men and Lukin disappear into the building and Bucky speeds the video up again until they reappear, dragging someone behind them. It’s Hawkeye and Bucky feels his blood run cold. There’s a strangely possessive feeling. He’s been hunting the guy for months. If anyone’s going to catch him, it’s Bucky.

“That explains why she’s asked us for help,” is what he says, instead. “She’s scared.”

“You think this is a rescue mission?” Coulson asks.

“You don’t think so? They took him to get her.”

“If someone took Bucky I’d team up with whoever I needed to in order to get him back,” Steve says. Bucky rolls his eyes and hopes that isn’t true, but Steve’s already proved that it is. His best friend worries him sometimes.

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking that you can understand how her mind works,” Coulson warns. “I doubt her action have anything to do with concern. She’s after Lukin.” He pauses and there are muffled voices over the phone line. “We’ve identified the location in the video. I’m sending a team to meet you there. The address should be on your phones.”

There is a knock on the door and, for a second, Bucky thinks the Widow might have shown up in person, but he dismisses the idea as ridiculous. He still has his gun drawn as he opens the door.

It’s a delivery guy with a box. This is getting to be a habit.

“Package for Steven Rogers?” he says. Bucky just nods and signs for it. The man runs away and Bucky realises he must be scowling.

He opens the box and pulls out two phones. He hands one to Steve and notices a note still in the box.

_Untraceable, virtually unhackable, SHIELD-proof. You’re welcome. BW x_

He almost laughs, because it’s like she’s reading his mind. He turns his phone on, listening to Steve describe what’s happening to Coulson. Coulson isn’t please about the phones, but Bucky could have predicted that.

There are two numbers pre-programmed under H and BW. The fact that she put Hawkeye’s number in tells him he’s right about why she’s doing this.

He calls BW just as Coulson hangs up. The number rings once before she picks up.

“Hi. Little busy right now. Please hold,” she says. There are the sounds of fighting and something breaking – a table maybe? It sounds wooden. Shouting in Russian. He can’t make out all the words, but it sounds like wherever she is people are starting to realise what’s going on. Someone calls her a crazy bitch and the sound of breaking glass indicates how well that works out for them. Bucky sits down on the sofa, rests his foot on his knee and waits patiently for her to finish.

She’s talking to someone, low and dangerous, and Bucky can just make out what she’s saying. The same question, repeated: where is he? He can’t tell if she means Lukin or Hawkeye, but he supposes they’re both in the same place, so it doesn’t matter.

Eventually there are footsteps and rustling before her voice comes again.

“Sorry, vermin problem. I see you got my present.”

“Thanks.”

“And you watched the video.”

“Yeah.” Bucky thinks about commenting for a moment, but she doesn’t seem to be the kind of girl who appreciates sympathy.

“Here’s the deal. You get Lukin. I get Hawkeye.” Bucky waves Steve over.

“You’re willing to give up Lukin to get Hawkeye back?” he asks. Steve’s eyebrows rise.

“Yes,” she doesn’t expand.

“Why?” Bucky has to ask.

“He goes with my shoes,” she replies. He doesn’t press it. “Are SHIELD tracking the van?”

“Yeah, they’re on it,” Bucky tells her.

“Good. Do we have a deal? Lukin for Hawkeye?”

Bucky’s about to say he needs to ask Coulson, but Coulson’s already told him. Level six agents and above are allowed to use any means necessary to get Lukin.

“We have a deal,” he says. Steve looks aghast. “Though you might have to convince Rogers.” There’s a pause.

“Tell Rogers…” she hesitates again. “Put him on the phone.” Bucky holds the phone out and Steve takes it and raises it to his ear. He doesn’t say anything, but whatever she says to him has a big effect. Steve straightens up and his mouth falls open in confusion and then snaps shut.

“That was you?” Steve says. His voice is blank. There’s a pause while Steve listens to whatever she’s saying. His face softens. Bucky wonders what on earth she could have said to get that reaction. “Yes ma’am. We’ll help you get him back.” He hands the phone back to Bucky, looking a little sad, but sure.

“What did you say to him?” Bucky asks as he raises the phone to his ear again. He doesn’t get an answer.

“I need some help with some legwork. I’ll send you the address. Just you and Rogers, leave the kids at home. Meet me in half an hour. Dress in something you don’t mind getting dirty.” She hangs up.

Steve refuses to talk about it, but he calls up Coulson and asks for all the CCTV footage from Bucky’s hospital stay in Dubai. He doesn’t explain why and he doesn’t respond to Bucky’s questioning look.

When they get to the address – an upmarket clothing store – there is no one around and Bucky puts his earpiece in.

“ _Go into the shop_ ,” she says in his ear. “ _Ask for Vijaya and try to look menacing_.”

“I can do menacing,” Bucky agrees.

“ _Rogers. You stay outside. Again, menacing would be good._ ” Steve crosses his arms over his chest and straightens his shoulders, flattening his face into as blank an expression as he can manage.

“ _Hmm…You’re better at that than I would have expected_.”

“What? You think I’ve never menaced anyone before?” Steve asks.

“ _I thought you got the pitbull to do it for you_.” Bucky’s not sure he appreciates the nickname, but he holds his tongue. “ _You’re more the good cop.”_

 _“Barnes. Go in now._ ”

Bucky moves. He hasn’t felt so out of place in a long time. The shop is clean white lines and Bucky’s cargo pants, dusty black top, and shirt look like they’ll leave dirt on every surface. He’s aware of the footprints he’s leaving on the clean white floor as well.

For a shop, it sure doesn’t seem like they’re selling much. Apart from the counter, there are a few small podiums with glass boxes on top, containing a few pieces of what seems to be horrendously over-priced jewellery each.

Ah well, the lady said menacing. He rolls up his sleeves as he crosses to the desk, showing off the metal of his forearm to its best advantage. He sees the sales girl’s eyes fix on it.

When she looks up again she looks into the face of the Winter Soldier. He stares through her.

“I’m here to see Vijaya,” he says. Her eyes widen and dart towards the back of the shop.

“I’ll just… see if she’s available,” she says, picking up the phone on the desk. She speaks into it in rapid Hindi that Bucky doesn’t understand, but he picks up the word “Vijaya.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” the Widow says and there’s the sound of a scuffle. “ _Thank you boys. You’ve been very useful._ ”

Right, of course. She was waiting out the back for the woman to rabbit. Bucky shakes his head and turns to walk out again.

“You gonna tell us what that was for?” he asks.

“ _Do you always know why SHIELD asks you to do things?_ ” she asks. “ _She has a cousin, who runs a private business. I need to talk to the cousin_.”

“Of course you do.”

*

Clint’s arms are free. There have been two more ‘treatments’ since he picked up the screw and it’s a miracle he hasn’t dropped it. Luckily, his hands seem to clench up when the pain hits, so it’s still there. The next bit is the bit he has to do fast, because even with the doctor’s impressively tunnel vision approach to note-taking, there’s no way he’s not going to notice Clint leaning down to uncuff his foot.

He waits until the doctor glances in completely the opposite direction and goes for it. The lock on the cuffs is simple enough, the screw’s not the best shape for a pick, but luckily the keyhole’s big enough.

The pain has shot his fine motor control to hell but sheer determination and maybe a little bit of luck mean that he can still do what he needs to do. The cuff clicks open just as the doctor glances back The look of surprise on his face is priceless, and it’s frozen there forever as Clint’s trusty screw hits his carotid.

*

Bucky gets to dangle someone off a building by their ankle. He probably shouldn’t think that it’s the highlight of his week – and to be fair the picture of the dog was adorable – but he’s been filling himself up with anger since they watched the video, and the chance to actually do something feels euphoric.

The Black Widow remains elusive, apart from a voice in their ears and the occasionally gift wrapped bad guy, but Steve and Bucky work well together, like always. Whatever she said on the phone to Steve earlier, he’s fully on board now.

Vijaya’s cousin runs a series of underground sex clubs, it seems, the kind that don’t ask questions. And rumour has it he’s rented out the premises to a Russian who’s in town.

The streets are filling up now, there’s a festival starting tonight and everywhere they look there are stalls and excited crowds. It’s the kind of atmosphere that’s perfect for getting lost in. If Lukin wants to disappear, he can and will. Bucky can feel the clock ticking and he tells himself that it’s for the mission, not the man that’s currently in Lukin’s custody. He could swear he used to be a better liar

No matter how many people he hangs out of windows, they get no closer to working out which of the cousin’s seven locations Lukin’s in. Steve suggests splitting up to cover them, but the Widow vetoes the idea immediately.

“ _The decoys will be booby trapped_ ,” she says. “ _Designed for me. If we go to the wrong one, he’ll know and he’ll move out before we get there._ ”

“I thought he wanted to catch you,” Bucky says.

“ _He does, but he wants to test me too. If I fail the test, he won’t want me back_.” She doesn’t say what that will mean for Hawkeye, but she doesn’t have to. Steve nods.

“So what do we know about the locations?” he asks. “Is there any way to narrow them down?”

“ _Why do you think I got SHIELD involved_?” she asks.

“The van,” Bucky realises. He’d forgotten the first question she’d asked. “Has Coulson got back to us about that?” Steve checks his SHIELD phone and shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he says out loud, for the comms to pick up. “You’re sure there’s no other way?”

“ _There’s always another way_ ,” she says. “ _It’s whether the other way gets us to where Lukin’s hiding before the time runs out_.”

“There’s a clock ticking on this?” Steve asks.

“ _There’s always a time limit_ ,” she says, bitterly, and it’s the first hint of real emotion Bucky has heard beyond the cool, unruffled persona she’s been projecting.

“I’ll chase it up,” Steve says, reaching up to switch off his comm so he can make the phone call.

Bucky’s standing in an empty bedroom, the occupant had found somewhere else to be real quick after Bucky and Steve had come knocking on his door. It’s a bit of a hole and the guy is obviously a slob. There’s half-finished food on the table and dirty clothing on the floor. There’s nothing here to guide them to Hawkeye and he kicks out at the table in frustration.

“ _You’re growling,_ ” the Widow says. Bucky doesn’t answer, but she goes on. “I _know about Afghanistan._ ” Bucky freezes. “ _I know what they did to you. I know about the arm and the chair._ ”

“How?”

“ _You can learn anything if you ask the right people. I know the right people._ ” It’s simultaneously an answer and no answer at all. She’s good at that. “ _I haven’t told anyone,_ ” which he takes to mean that she hasn’t told Hawkeye, because who else would she tell. She has fewer friends than he has. “ _I might need you to be that person again._ ” Bucky doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“ _It might not come to that_ ,” she says. “ _For what it’s worth, I hope it doesn’t._ ” She hums to herself for a moment. “ _But if it does?_ ”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. His jaw tightens and he shuts his eyes.

“ _Then I’ll find another way_ ,” she says. Bucky lets out his breath and opens his eyes again. He notices Steve standing in the corner, obviously having just turned his comm on.

“Why do you care?” he asks.

“ _It has to be your decision_ ,” she says, not offering up any further explanation. “ _Agent Rogers, any news about the van?_ ” And like that the conversation is over and Bucky’s not even clear what just happened. Is she playing him? He closes his eyes against the growing darkness outside and tells himself that this is all going to end up just fine. He doesn’t believe it though. He doesn’t believe in fairy tales.

“Apparently Lukin switched vehicle three times,” Steve says. “There were decoy vehicles as well. They seemed to be heading towards location two, but they lost him a few minutes out.”

“ _What colour was the last vehicle?_ ” she asks.

“Green.”

“ _No_ ,” she says immediately. “ _That wasn’t Lukin. What about his decoys?_ ”

“The analysts seemed pretty certain.”

“ _It’s not the green one_ ,” she says.

“Planning to tell us why?” Steve asks.

“ _What colour were the decoys?_ ”

Steve reels off a list and he stops him when he says silver.

“ _That’s the one. The silver one. Where did that one end up_?” Steve has to call Coulson again to find out.

“Location Five.”

“ _Then that’s where he is. Get the STRIKE boys and tell them it’s time to do some actual work. I’m going in in forty five minutes, with or without you._ ”

She doesn’t listen to their protests, just disappears from her end of the line.

“If this is the wrong one,” Bucky says.

“She seems sure.”

“She wouldn’t say why,” Bucky countered, but Steve shakes his head.

“She wouldn’t risk this on a maybe.”

“You seem sure too.”

“Yeah… well,” Steve looks uncomfortable. “If it was you, I’d make sure.”

*

The escape attempt was not a roaring success. Clint and Lakshmi got to take out a few more of Lukin’s goons, but they ended right up where they were before again and Lakshmi’s lost some of her defiance. She’s drooping down at the corners.

“Hey,” Clint says. His nose is busted, so he must sound like he’s got a cold, but he can’t hear himself. His hearing aids are gone again, the punishment for trying to escape. “How’s college?” he asks.

Lakshmi answers with shaking hands, but slowly her words become clearer, her hands firmer, and she loses the scared edge. Clint makes what he hopes are appropriately encouraging noises as she tells him about her plans for the future. A future that he is determined she’s going to have.

In his own head, his thoughts are going in a loop. Nat will be coming for him, but at the same time, they will be waiting for her.

Unless she’s decided he’s too much of a problem and she cuts and runs.

He hopes she’s cut and run.

But Lakshmi… He lets his head rest back against the bars and watches Lakshmi sign about her favourite lecturer. There is no way this is ending well.

Her hands stop abruptly and her head turns. The guards move as well. It’s the kind of movement that means Clint has missed something by being mostly deaf. A sound has caught their attention, something worrying and loud, but probably far away, as it wasn’t loud enough for Clint to pick up.

The whole place shakes as even Clint hears the next one, though dull and a million miles away: an explosion.

The guard in front of his cell turns and raises his gun, clearly with instructions to terminate in case of emergency. But, before Clint can do anything about it, Nat’s there and the guards fall down like bowling pins.

She says something. At least Clint assumes Nat’s talking and not just moving her mouth around for fun.

“No ears,” he says, because a concussion and being the designated torture guinea pig have left his brain way too muddled to lip read. Luckily Nat switches to signing immediately.

 _Need to be quick. SHIELD. Made deal but don’t trust. Hearing aids where?_ Clint shrugs.

“With Lukin,” he says. Nat winces, he must be talking too loud. “Have you seen him?” he asks, hoping he hasn’t gone too far the other way. She shakes her head and removes lockpicks from her sleeve to open the cell. Once it’s open she’s dragging Clint away, but he pulls back, nodding at Lakshmi.

 _Escape for two_ , Nat signs. _SHIELD will help her. Come on_.

He looks at Lakshmi, who smiles and signs ‘go’ at him, and he lets Nat pull him away.

She carries him most of the way to the roof, where she’s got a zip line set up.

 _OK?_ She signs at him, indicating the wire. Screw that, of course he’s OK. If it involves jumping off buildings, Clint’s pretty much a professional at it. He takes the belt she passes him, slings it over the line, and jumps off the roof.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Concussions and zip wires do not go together. He manages to hold on until he gets to the other roof at least, then lets go. He falls to the rooftop with all the grace of a brick. Nat flies over him a second later, landing perfectly on her feet before cutting the wire so nobody can follow them.

She helps Clint to his feet and shoves one arm under his shoulders to hold him up. He looks back to see the SHIELD agents swarming the roof as the moon comes out from behind a cloud to paint the world in silver.

*

“No sign of Lukin?” Coulson asks and the only answer Bucky can give is no. Bucky’s on Coulson duty because Steve’s dealing with the traumatised twenty year old they’d found in the cell, surrounded by dead guards. At least, she’s acting traumatised. Bucky’s not convinced she’s quite as clueless as she’s making out. She’s the daughter of the man they found dead in his workshop full of hidden weapons this morning, which she’s claiming to know nothing about. But Bucky’s line of questioning was a little forceful, so Steve took over.

“What about Hawkeye and the Widow?” Coulson asks.

“There was definitely someone else held here,” Bucky says. “But there’s no evidence of who it was. We think the Widow used our entry as a distraction while she got him out.”

“There are reports of an eye witness.”

“Not much help. The descriptions she’s giving and don’t correlate with what we know about Hawkeye,” which is odd as she’s apparently spent most of the day opposite him.

“That sounds unlikely,” Coulson says.

“Yes, sir. Steve’s with her at the moment, trying to help her remember more clearly.” Coulson hums thoughtfully.

“Very well,” he says. “Remind Agent Rogers that I expect full reports in my inbox tomorrow by midday Mumbai time.”

“Yes, sir.” Bucky smothers his groan. With the clean up as well he’s not going to get any sleep tonight. Apparently Coulson’s angrier than he sounds.

*

By the time he sends his report the next day, Bucky’s tired enough that he’d be happy to sleep for a week. Whatever the SHIELD mad science department did to Steve, though, apparently left him without the ability to feel tired, because he just got access to the Dubai hospital footage and he’s watching it avidly, with every indication that he’s in for the long haul.

Collapsing face down on his bed earns Bucky a couple of hours much needed sleep, until the sound of his phone ringing yanks him unwillingly from his dreamless sleep.

If this is Coulson calling to complain about the report, Bucky is not going to be responsible for what comes out of his mouth. But when he finds his phone, the screen’s blank and the ringing continues.

“Are you gonna answer that?” Steve calls, not looking away from the screen. It takes Bucky a minute to realise that there’s a second phone. It’s lying on the floor next to the bed, where Bucky must have dropped it earlier. When he peers over the side, it’s lighting up and vibrating excitedly.

“Answer the phone, Buck,” Steve calls again. “If that’s Coulson then-“

“It’s not Coulson,” Bucky calls back. He reaches down to scoop up the phone and swipes to answer it.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t taking my calls,” the Widow says.

“Trying to get some rest. It was a busy night.” He doesn’t ask about Hawkeye, though he can feel the question on his tongue.

“Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, but someone wanted to talk to you.” There’s a rustle and a new voice comes over the line.

“Hey Agent Barnes,” it says. Bucky sits up. Hawkeye sounds hoarse. It’s a tone that’s all too familiar. It’s the way people sound after screaming for hours.

“Hawkeye,” he replies, not trusting himself to say more. He’s suddenly very aware that this is the first time they’ve spoken, and Bucky’s half asleep and Hawkeye’s half… whatever. It feels like there’s something gathering around them.

“Heard you helped out with the manhunt yesterday. Sorry for dragging you into all this.” His voice disappears to almost a rasp and Bucky can hear the Widow in the background telling him to drink water.

“No problem,” Bucky says. “Hunting for you is kind of my job.”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye says, sounding a bit dejected.

“Only person who gets to lock you up is me,” Bucky says, voicing the words that have been fizzing through his mind all day.

“Yeah? I’ll hold you to that, Barnes.” The laugh on the other end of the line turns into a coughing fit and Hawkeye is replaced by the Widow again

“Is he OK?” Bucky asks. She sighs.

“He’ll be fine, as long as he does what he’s told.” Bucky’s betting he’s not too good at that. “There’s no permanent damage, but we’ll be taking some time off. I thought I’d get you a heads up in case you wanted to take some vacation days. SHIELD does give you those, right?”

There’s a murmur from the other end of the line.

“I’ve got to go,” she says, but doesn’t hang up. “I owe you and Agent Rogers a debt,” she says. It’s abrupt and cold, nothing like her voice when she was talking about Hawkeye. “I will remember that.” Then she hangs up.

When Bucky looks up, he finds Steve watching him with concern.

*

Clint recovers from his coughing fit to find that Nat’s hung up the phone, which really isn’t fair because Barnes was definitely flirting. And Clint was just working up to some truly amazing flirting of his own when the coughing had happened and now Nat’s gone and ended the call. He pouts at her, which she ignores with skill born of years of experience.

“You need sleep,” she says instead. “But I’m waking you every hour for your concussion.” Clint’s pretty sure the concussion’s mostly gone by now and he’s not sure what she’s planning on doing about it if it’s not, seeing as how she managed to get them a spare berth in a cruise ship. He doubts the onboard medical staff have a lot of facilities.

They are Mr and Mrs Ellis, on holiday for their fifth wedding anniversary. Mr Ellis tragically struck down with seasickness, allowing Clint to recover in peace. He’d been against the idea – nothing more boring than being stuck in a tin can with a bunch of retirees, but apparently there’s an archery range somewhere, so there should be something to do.

With a sigh to let Nat know that he’s only doing this because he’s humouring her, not because he needs it, Clint strips down to his boxers and climbs into bed. He contemplates taking his new hearing aids out (one last gift from Dheeraj, it seems, that Nat had found when going through his stuff. He hasn’t asked her whether she killed him and she hasn’t volunteered the information. It’s probably best he doesn’t know). The drone of the ship’s engine is constant, but after having them stolen from him and sleeping in an alien place, it feels safer to have them in. His ears will hurt when he wakes up, but he’ll feel better.

Nat curls up next to him, not quite touching, but her body heat radiates against his side. She turns out the light, leaving them in quasi darkness, although the daylight still intrudes through the curtains.

“Thank you for coming for me,” he says into the dark.

“Of course I came, idiot,” she says in Russian. Her voice is soft and warm against his ear.

“Not sure why,” he admits. “Probably would have been easier for you if you’d just killed me when we met. Still don’t know why you didn’t.”

“You amused me. Go to sleep.”

Clint stares into the dark for another long minute.

“I’m sorry Lukin got away again,” he says.

“Go to sleep, Clint,” she repeats. “I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.”

“I should never have shown you that film,” Clint grumbles, but he closes his eyes and loses track of anything by the hum of the engines and the sway of the ship.

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other exciting things: I forgot to mention last time that [inananemone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inananemone/pseuds/inananemone) drew [art of Clint's stick figures](http://tinypic.com/view.php?pic=332wggw&s=9#.WZ3evYTytac) and it is perfect and adorable and I love it. I squeed so much when I saw it. I can't believe I got more art.
> 
> Thank you to anyone still reading this. Now that everything's pretty much done, the posting should be a lot more frequent.


	6. Washington D.C.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With no new leads on Hawkeye and Black Widow, Bucky and Steve find themselves being put to work at SHIELD HQ. Bucky gets his first proper solo mission and Clint comes to a realisation.

SHIELD doesn’t exactly give them a vacation, but with Hawkeye and Black Widow in the wind, they do get hauled back to DC and out of the field. One of the first things that happens is that the phones Black Widow gave them are taken away for testing. Bucky protests that they are the only link to two of the world’s greatest assassins, but the only answer he gets is that that’s the reason they need to be analysed properly. Steve’s giving Bucky that weird concerned look again, so Bucky gives in. But he’s making damn sure he gets that phone back again.

Then they’re lumped into the Red Room task force, who apparently are short-handed since they’ve never had as much evidence as they just got from Mumbai. Apparently no one’s come that close to Lukin in over a decade.

The evidence includes all the stuff from the club where Hawkeye was kept, all the discarded vehicles and the contents of Dheeraj Pandit’s workshop. From what he’s heard, Pandit’s daughter’s not too happy about the seizure of his possessions but, as most of them are illegal and she’s denying any knowledge of them, she can’t complain too hard.

Bucky and Steve have the wonderful task of sorting through the contents of the six filing cabinets of blueprints and designs, all itemised in folders by codename. When they make it to H there’s only half a drawer and a suspicious looking space at the back of it. Black Widow had been thorough.

It’s mind-numbing and never-ending work, the only glimmers of reprieve are in the training rooms. Bucky’s so bored he beats his own high score in the range six days in a row.

Even more annoying is that, since he and Steve have got so close to Lukin and to Hawkeye and the Black Widow, the level of fear people have for Bucky has dropped. People have started to view him with something like awe. SHIELD’s a worse place for gossip than his ma’s church group and by the end of the first week the stories have already grown out of proportion.

“I hear you took down six Red Room agents with your hands tied behind your back,” Steve says as they sit down in the cafeteria. “And that you and the Black Widow are secretly married.” He feigns an expression of deep hurt. “I’m genuinely wounded that you didn’t ask me to be your best man.” Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Tell you what, next time I get fake-married, you definitely get to be best man.” Steve grins and Bucky hopes he won’t live to regret that promise. “What about you?” he asks by way of distraction. “I heard you punched Hitler in the face.”

“What?” Steve asks. “How? Hitler died almost fifty years before I was born.”

“A guy in IT swears that SHIELD has developed time-travel technology and if you get Level Eleven clearance you get to see it.”

“I don’t have Level Eleven clearance,” Steve points out, like that’s the biggest issue with the rumour. “I don’t even think that exists.”

“No, but Fury let you use it because you’re just so awesome,” Bucky tells him, fluttering his eyelashes. Steve glares at him. Bucky’s favourite thing about their new reputations is that Steve has his own fan club, who stare at him like adoring puppies and sigh in delight whenever he holds a door open for someone. You can practically see the hearts in their eyes. Steve has no idea what to do with them, just tells them he’s no more important than any other agent and smiles at them kindly, which makes it worse. If he’d just act like his usual annoying self, rather than trying to be polite, it would solve the issue, but that never occurs to him.

Bucky’s not got it much better, though. The sudden lack of fear means that people _talk_ to him. There’s a young woman who’s working with him on the filing cabinet who can’t seem to stop. Steve, lucky bastard, got reassigned a couple of days ago. Hill has him going over mission reports – so maybe Bucky’s the lucky one. Steve’s frowning intently at the screen in front of him, like something’s personally offended him.

After a few more minutes, Steve looks up at him and beckons him over.

“Read this,” Steve says. It looks like a standard mission report, but if Steve’s giving it his intense frown, then Bucky’ll see what’s up.

It doesn’t make for a good read, for all there are plenty of explosions and tons of violence. It’s written in the bored, dry tone of someone who’s written a million of these reports and doesn’t even know why they bother anymore. Bucky knows that feeling intimately. It mostly seems like a by-the-book raid of a terrorist cell which failed to obtain any actionable intelligence. The terrorists having cleared out as soon as they heard SHIELD coming. He’s about to ask Steve why exactly he thought Bucky would find this interesting when he sees it.

It’s not something he thinks he would have noticed unguided, but… He looks up at Steve.

“There’s no way they could have set all that up in a few minutes,” he says and Steve nods. “Coincidence?” It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that the terrorist cell in the report had already been preparing to leave when SHIELD had raided the place.

“Maybe.” Steve sighs and his eyebrows are drawn together, the furrow in between them is concerning. “Something feels off, though.”

“You told Hill?”

“There’s nothing to tell her,” Steve says with a shrug. “It’s just… odd. I’m gonna poke around a bit, see if I can find anything else.”

“OK. You want me to help?” Bucky asks. Steve looks up and if Bucky didn’t know him as well as he does, he wouldn’t notice the little twitch of his mouth that says he’s trying to keep a straight face.

“No, no… I wouldn’t want to intrude. You seem to be getting on so well with your new partner.”

Bucky glares, but Steve waves him off, so he’s back to sitting going through the filing cabinet from Mumbai and listening to a litany of information about the technology and comparing it to Stark Industries tech.

Bucky’s tried his best intimidating manoeuvres. He’s tried staring her down. He’s tried handling weapons in a menacing way, but she’s used to the weapons, and she doesn’t look at his face often enough to register the stare. She even finds the arm fascinating, probably because it’s Stark tech. He wonders if she’d be so impressed with it if he showed her the laser pointer Stark put in the index finger in an attempt to be funny.

Steve, who is getting his own back for all the times Bucky’s sent his fan club in the right direction, is still sitting across the room, his feet on the desk, silently laughing his ass off. At least he’s not frowning anymore. But, honestly, why anyone thinks he’s a good guy is beyond Bucky. The guy’s a little shit and he always has been.

Bucky grabs a piece of paper from a notebook and scrunches it into a ball. He’s about to lob it at Steve’s fat head when he realises there’s someone standing in the doorway just behind him. The ball of paper makes its way into the trash can instead.

“Glad to see you’re all playing nicely,” Agent Hill says. Steve shoots upright in surprise and the kid jumps. Bucky’s the only one who doesn’t react and he gives Steve a smug smile, which falls from his face as soon as Hill speaks again. “Agent Barnes, Director Fury wants to see you.” Bucky and Steve both rise from their chairs. “Just Agent Barnes,” she says. “You’re to stay here, Rogers.” Steve looks alarmed, but doesn’t protest, and the kid blurts out a quick ‘good luck’ as Bucky follows Hill out the door.

She doesn’t talk, so Bucky just follows her, which is a relief after the constant chatter, but it does give Bucky time to think. He’s seen Fury a grand total of two times. The first was a bit hazy, during that time after Steve had dragged him home and his brain was seesawing between being HYDRA’s asset and Bucky Barnes. The second was clearer, just after he’d agreed to join SHIELD and passed the tests to be a field agent. Fury had congratulated him and told him that many people had said to him that Bucky had the makings of an excellent agent. The unspoken implication that they had better be right had been hanging over Bucky’s head ever since.

As the elevator rises, he tries to think of what he could have done to gain Fury’s attention. But he can’t think of anything. As far as he’s aware, Steve has been involved in all his recent bad decisions, so it doesn’t make sense for him to be dragged up alone, like a kid to the principal’s office.

“Before I forget,” Hill says, unzipping a pocket of her jacket to pull out an evidence bag. “We couldn’t find any evidence on it, and the encryption is unlike anything our team has seen before. It shut down as soon as they tried to turn it on. Whatever the Black Widow did to that, no one’s getting into it but you. They’re going to try to get into Agent Rogers’ with his help, but with you going on assignment, we thought it was better that you have yours back, in case they decide to contact you.”

Bucky closes his hand around the phone gratefully, but he doesn’t turn it on. His instinct is to wait until he’s outside the Triskelion. Instead he focuses on the other thing Hill said.

“Assignment?”

“Yes, Director Fury will fill you in,” she says, which explains why he’s in the elevator a little bit. Apart from the fact that he’s always received his mission assignments from Coulson before and he’s always been partnered with Steve. He’s assumed that’s because they don’t fully trust him, not that he’s asked and they’ve never told. It’s alright, he doesn’t fully trust them either. Coulson, he now knows, has a reputation for handling the difficult cases, which is a fair description of Bucky, he supposes.

The elevator door sings out its cheerful death knell and they step out onto floor 30. Bucky’s never been up here and he’s a little surprised at how pleasant it is, large and airy feeling. It’s only when Hill leads the way that Bucky realises how deceptive it is. The place is a labyrinth with cunningly placed mirrors to add to the effect.

From the mental map Bucky’s managed to piece together, Hill’s been taking them the long way round, though. If he’s right, the actual entrance to Fury’s office is only a few metres away from the elevator.

When they enter, the man in question is at the floor length windows on the other side, watching over the world below, his hands clasped behind his back. He doesn’t turn around.

“Agent Barnes, you’ve been earning yourself quite the reputation,” he says, letting the words hang in the air before he finally turns around. His one good eye has more than enough power to make up for the missing one. Bucky’s years in the army made him good at standing still and staring into the middle distance while officers talked. He mirrors the way Agent Hill stands at parade rest and stares determinedly at nothing.

“Do you know why I gave you and Rogers the Hawkeye assignment?”

“No sir,” seems the safest response, although Bucky’s hazarded a few suggestions to Steve over the past months.

“It was to get you out of my hair.” Bucky’s eyes do not flick up to look at the top of Fury’s bald head, but it takes a Herculean effort. “And to take you both down a peg or two. It was an impossible mission. We’ve sent agents after them before. Good agents – the best. But no one got closer than rumour. They’ve been Coulson’s pet project for years. I think he wants to rehabilitate them. I’m not convinced, some people can’t be brought around. But then, I’ve been wrong before.” He eyes Bucky meaningfully. “The idea was that you two would go off on your little adventure, chase your own tails for a few months, then we’d reassign you.

“Imagine my surprise when you actually got somewhere. Not just once, but consistently you two got closer to them than any of our teams have ever managed before, teams of highly trained agents, with years of experience. Then, in Dubai, you actually saw one of them, communicated with him, and now, again, in Mumbai.” Fury pauses. “There aren’t many people who prove me wrong, Agent Barnes.”

He crosses over to the desk.

“You’ve proved yourself a capable agent, and you hold eight of the top ten positions on the shooting range.” Bucky must look surprised because Fury looks over at him. He doesn’t look impressed, but his words imply that he must be a little bit. “I know everything that happens in my agency, Barnes. I know what you ate for breakfast this morning. I know when you last took a piss. I know everything. I’ve also read your army record and your psych evaluations. That’s why you’re being considered for this assignment.” Fury picks up a tablet computer from the table and holds it out for Bucky to take.

Grateful for something to do, Bucky looks at it, flicking through the screens of the file that Fury has open. There are pictures of a man and transcripts of phone conversations and emails. They are in code, but the decryption notes indicate the planning of a large scale attack. At the end of the file, there’s a flight plan for a private airplane, due to arrive in DC tomorrow evening. Although there’s no indication of the mission itself, Bucky knows exactly what the plan is before he hands back the tablet.

“This mission is need to know,” Fury tells him. “Agent Rogers does not need to know.” He surveys Bucky again as if waiting for him to protest, he doesn’t. “Do you accept the assignment?”

Bucky considers it for a moment. Steve would be up in arms about the idea. Shooting a man on US soil, using Bucky as a weapon, but it’s no worse than what he did in the army. And he has the choice.

“If I say no?” he asks.

“Then you walk out that door, we never talk of this again, and I call up the next best shot in the agency.” Fury says with a shrug. Bucky nods.

“I accept.”

“Good. Agent Hill will give you the relevant details and take you to choose your equipment.” Buck takes that as the dismissal it is and gives a firm nod. Hill steps aside to allow him out first and he thinks he hears a hum of approval when he turns left instead of right, stepping around the plants and walks straight to the elevator.

“You know,” Hill says conversationally as she comes to stand next to him. “I know agents who’ve worked here for over a decade who still turn right.”

“Impressed?” Bucky asks.

“Because you found an elevator?” She doesn’t even glance at him. “Trust me, Barnes. I’ll let you know if you impress me. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” he says. The idea of doing something, and the fact that Fury wasn’t kicking him out or locking him up, has him riding something of a high. It may also have something to do with the phone weighing down his pocket, a link to something he’s still pretending he doesn’t really want.

The briefing is thorough and complete. It’s not like the Hawkeye mission where he and Steve get a broad strokes picture and it’s up to them to fill in the details however they like. This is more like one of his army missions, where Bucky’s just a cog in a bigger machine. He has a position, he takes the shot – or not, if something is wrong – and then he follows the extraction plan.

It should remind him of HYDRA, but it doesn’t. He thinks it’s the way Hill names the other agents: the guy running the extraction is Agent Thomas and he’s the best pilot she’s ever seen; Bucky’s back-up is Agent May, who is apparently a little upset that she hasn’t managed to beat Bucky’s score on the range yet; and the guy who handles the clean-up is called Roy.

He chooses his rifle from the SHIELD stores. He hasn’t needed one for a mission before, though he’s been keeping up with it on the range, so he doesn’t have one of his own. He feels a bit like a kid in a candy store looking at them all. Maybe it’s a little creepy that he gets so happy about rifles, but it’s like finding a piece of himself again. He bets that Hawkeye feels the same way about his bow. His fingers itch to take out the phone and ask, but he restrains himself. Not while he’s in the Triskelion.

It’s later than usual when Bucky gets out. Steve’s been told that Bucky has a solo mission and so he’s fussing about in Bucky’s apartment all evening, trying to seem like he isn’t. Eventually, Bucky throws him out under the excuse of needing to get enough rest and Steve’s tripping over himself to leave. Bucky doesn’t point out the man’s hypocrisy. If anyone else suggested that Bucky wasn’t ready for a solo mission, Steve would be the first to offer to punch some sense into them, but Steve’s obviously more worried about it than he would ever admit to. But Bucky manages to get him laughing as he leaves, which should help.

All told, It’s half ten by the time he’s finally alone, and he risks turning on the phone. He’s feeling strangely nervous about looking at it. He’s not sure if he’s anxious about there being messages or about there not being messages. He knows that Steve’s worried he’s lost perspective and Bucky can’t honestly say he’s wrong. Bucky’s worried. There are rules and, although he hasn’t crossed over any official lines, he feels like he’s walking very close to them. He can’t say this isn’t personal now.

He has eleven new messages, all from Hawkeye.

_I think we just got attacked by pirates. Another thing to cross off my bucket list_.

_Modern pirates do not take kindly to being called scurvy sea dogs._

Then there was a blurry picture of a man with a machine gun. Bucky stares at it for a moment in alarm. Because, yes, that is a machine gun, and the man does not look happy to be having his picture taken.

_Had to steal a life boat_

_Land ho!_

_Worst vacation ever_

There was a week between the date stamp of that one and the next text, which was another picture, this time of a multicoloured sunrise, looking out from a postcard perfect beach. It’s beautiful, Bucky’s never been anywhere like it.

_More like it_

_R u still alive?_

_Srsly Barnes. R u dead?_

_Checked GPS on ur phone. Says you’ve been in SHIELD HQ for over a week. r u a prisoner? Rescue needed?_

_BW thinks they’ve taken ur phones. If ur reading this GIVE BARNES BACK HIS PHONE!_

Bucky smiles and shakes his head. It’s hard to reconcile the man who sends the texts with the archer who kills people without remorse.

_I’m fine_. He texts back. _No need for rescue. Not that I’d need it. Stop worrying and enjoy your vacation._ Then he goes to bed.

In the morning, the only reply he has comes in the form of two rather ominous words: _too late_. But he doesn’t have time to worry about them because the mission has to be his priority.

When he’s choosing his position, he’ll admit that he considers where Hawkeye might choose. His choice of weapon would mean angles and range would be different, and from what he’s learnt studying the man’s kills, he knows he prefers the higher vantage points. But ultimately Bucky’s not him, so he chooses his own spot. It would have been an interesting argument that he’ll never get to have.

“ _In position, Barnes?_ ” Hill asks in his ear.

“Just setting up,” he replies. There is a soothing routine to putting together the rifle. And when he lies down and fits it against his shoulder and his eye against the scope it feels like he’s recovered a missing piece of himself. The rifle fits like another limb. And there’s a sense of relief, as though he’s finally able to breathe properly, although he’s never stopped breathing. The barrel is an extension of his arm and every breath brings the world into clearer focus. Bucky has missed this. There’s a feeling of such absolute control and the problems of the world are scattered below him and insignificant in the light of the calm that’s flooding his body.

“In position,” he says.

He doesn’t really know how long he’s lying there for. Time moves in the shadows on the tarmac and he watches it creep past.

“ _The target’s plane is landing_.” Hill says. “ _Confirm position_.”

“Position confirmed.”

He waits. There’s a certain tension in the air, but none in his body. This is a familiar rhythm that he had feared he had forgotten, but it returns in muscle memory and a part of his mind that is clear and firm. His finger taps against the side of the trigger gently and he waits.

“ _Agent Barnes, change of plans_ ,” Hill says. “ _There’s a problem with the intended bay. Plane is being redirected to Bay 4. Can you make the shot from where you are or do you need to reposition?_ ”

Bucky finds Bay 4 down the scope. It’s on the other side of the apron, so the plan will end up facing in the opposite direction, with the doors on the side facing away from Bucky. There’s a visible roof opposite, but…

“How long until it reaches the bay?”

“ _Less than two minutes_ ,” Hill says. There’s no way Bucky can pack up, make it to the new position and set up in time.

“No time to reposition. I’ll make the most of what I’ve got.”

“ _Only take the shot if you have it_.” Hill tells him. It’s unnecessary, that’s practically the first rule of being a sniper. “ _If you mess this one up_ …” He doesn’t respond and he knows that Agent May, wherever she is, is waiting for the signal to move to Plan B.

The plane appears, trundling along, and Bucky watches it. It rolls into position and the ground crew wheel the steps over to the door, visible underneath the fuselage. As five men emerge from the plane, he can only see their legs, so there’s no way to tell which is his target. If he knew, he could get them to the ground with a shot to the knee, but he can wait.

“ _Do you have visual confirmation?_ ” Hill asks.

“Negative.” Bucky says and the others on the line give the same answer. “Give me a minute.”

“ _We might not have a minute_ ,” she says. Patience is the sniper’s best friend and Bucky wants to snap at her, but he doesn’t. He’s too busy watching the people behind the airplane as they move.

“ _There’s a car coming_ ,” Hill says. “ _If you don’t have the shot, we need to move to Plan B_.”

“Wait for it,” Bucky says. The car pulls up behind the plane. The men get in, but there’s only one road out and that’s directly in Bucky’s line of sight. “Does anyone have visual?”

“ _I do_ ,” says a voice that Bucky thinks must be May. “ _Target is in the rear of the vehicle. Left hand side._ ”

“Thanks,” he says, moving the rifle so it’s aimed directly down the road.

“ _Agent Barnes, do you have the shot?_ ” Hill asks.

“I’m working on it,” he says. The car pulls out onto the road. “Back left, you’re sure? Bullet-proof glass?” Not that it would make much difference, the speed the bullet would be travelling would be enough to pierce all but the strongest bullet-proof glass on the market.

“ _Yes. Confirm back left. Doesn’t look armoured._ ”

The windows of the vehicle are tinted, but there’s no glare on the glass. Through the scope he can just make out a head and shoulders. He moves his finger onto the trigger.

“ _Barnes. Do you have the shot_?”

“Yes.” He says.

Bucky squeezes the trigger on the exhale, moves with the recoil and watches the rear window shatter and the head jerk forward and fall. The car screeches to a halt, but Bucky’s already moving, disassembling the rifle automatically and heading for the extraction point.

“ _Hit confirmed. Target down._ ” May’s voice says in his ear. Bucky doesn’t need the confirmation, he knew the shot was good before he took it. But it makes something settle comfortably in his chest. He probably shouldn’t feel proud that he just killed someone, but it’s definitely pride. It feels like he’s passed a test that he set for himself.

His phone buzzes in his pocket – he’d forgotten to turn it off – but he doesn’t check it until the extraction is well underway.

It’s from Hawkeye.

_That was beautiful. That shot! Marry me!_

Bucky blinks, because the airfield had been a dead zone. SHIELD had cut off all information from getting out, which means that Hawkeye must have been there, watching him. He smothers the little happy smile that springs to his face at the obvious appreciation. The fact that he’s impressed Hawkeye…

He pushes the thought away. It’s ridiculous to be pleased that Hawkeye was impressed, even if he is the best shot Bucky’s ever seen.

_Are you stalking me now?_ Bucky asks, aware that he should really find that more alarming than he does.

_You stalked me first_.

Bucky doesn’t really have an answer for that.

*

Clint probably shouldn’t have got a flight to Washington from Thailand. He should still be on a beach with Nat drinking Mai Tai’s or whatever those drinks she was ordering him were. She was getting them on the house because the bartender thought she looked good in a bikini or something, and they had had those little umbrellas in, which are awesome. And there had been a beach and palm trees. The point is that Clint should really still be there, not in Washington DC, chasing down someone he’s never _really_ met just because they haven’t answered their phone.

Nat isn’t here. She’s sitting this one out. On a beach in Thailand. Because she is definitely smarter than Clint. She had sighed when he had decided he was going and reminded him not to get caught.

“I’ll be fine,” Clint had told her as he packed his stuff. “He’s not going to catch me.”

“I hope not,” she’d replied. “I just got you trained.”

She’d watched him for a while, looking thoughtful, which Clint’s used to, though he probably should worry about it more. Nat’s always planning something, but it seems like she’s planning something about him at the moment. When he was finally leaving she’d spoken again.

“I’ll kill him if he hurts you, you know.” Clint had felt about five years old under her gaze. “You give your heart away far too easily.”

“It’s not like that. It’s not _serious_ ,” he had told her, but Nat had just shaken her head and called him an idiot before kissing his cheek and wishing him a nice flight.

She has definitely got the right idea, because DC is cold and bleak and windy and this is not the weather to be sitting on the fire escape outside someone’s apartment listening to them talk to their best friend. It’s official. This is crazy. But Clint recently fought pirates on the high seas. Crazy is relative, right?

He got to the apartment before Bucky was home and he may have let himself in through the window, which is not… okay, it’s a little stalkery. But he was just looking for clues to the mystery that was the SHIELD agent’s absence.

It’s a nice apartment, lived in, with food in the fridge and a half-read novel on the bedside table. A note has been stuck to the fridge saying “Call Ma”, so Clint’s not the only one Bucky’s been forgetting to call.

Okay, so maybe it is stalking. Nat’s right, it’s obsessive. And then he’d heard the keys in the lock and leapt out the window to huddle on the fire escape listening to Bucky and Rogers. They’re both healthy and fully functioning from what he can tell. So maybe SHIELD hasn’t been torturing them endlessly for information. Good to know. He sends Nat a text to say that everything’s okay – she may not admit it, but she cares. She texts back to say that she wasn’t worried.

So that’s it. Mystery solved. Clint can go back to his regularly scheduled life, this idiocy forgotten. He gets up to move when he overhears that Bucky has another mission tomorrow (and he’s definitely not jealous that Bucky has a mission that’s not him), then he forces himself to leave because eavesdropping just seems… like a violation of privacy. He doesn’t question the thought, although as part of his day job he eavesdrops on people all the time. It’s different when he knows the people involved. Even if he does like hearing the way Bucky laughs when Steve makes a joke – and who’d have thought Agent Rogers had such a dirty mind?

He drags himself away and holes up in a motel for the night. At about half past ten he gets a text message. He thinks it must be from Nat, but it’s not. Finally, radio silence is over.

_I’m fine_. _No need for rescue. Not that I’d need it. Stop worrying and enjoy your vacation._

Clint grins and contemplates his response, settling on the truth.

_Too late._

*

The next morning it’s just professional curiosity that has him lurking outside Barnes’ apartment with his second cup of coffee of the day. He just wants to see what the man who’s hunting him down is capable of.

What Bucky Barnes is capable of, it seems, is blowing Clint’s mind.

He doesn’t believe what he’s seeing until Bucky actually pieces together the rifle, his hands utterly sure in their movements. Clint knows his way around a rifle, but the way Bucky handles it is just… well, it’s poetry in motion. He’s a little turned on just by that.

But then there’s the shot.

The shot.

Oh god, that shot.

It’s perfect. It’s also a fucking bitch. Maybe Clint would have done it a bit differently, but… it was really fucking hot. Not just the skill involved, but the sight of Bucky lying in position with the gun, like it was as natural as breathing. Clint’s aware that he might be a bit fucked up about things like this but…

Hands down the hottest thing Clint has ever witnessed.

He runs for his life as the SHIELD clean-up squads draw in and the onsite security team scramble, but even as he’s scrambling up the perimeter fence, he’s still going over that shot in his head. Absolutely gorgeous.

Barnes is not fair. He’s the fucking perfect man.

He sends the text to Bucky before he can think about it, in a fit of exhilaration and awe. He doesn’t even register that he just proposed to the man. The text he gets in reply is a little less enthusiastic.

_Are you stalking me?_

Aw, no. He’s pissed the guy off. Good going, Hawkeye!

_You stalked me first_ , he points out. A little defensively perhaps, but it’s true. Although Clint’s not sure it counts as stalking if you’re paid to do it. Maybe he should find someone to pay him to stalk Bucky. That sounds like a good job, and probably less illegal than his current employment. It’s definitely something to look into.

It’s not until he’s back at his motel room, looking into the chipped mirror in the harsh light, that it finally sinks in.

He phones Nat and waits until she picks up.

“Uh… Nat?”

“ _Yes, Clint_?”

“I think I’m in love with a SHIELD agent _.”_

He is so screwed.

*

 


	7. Napa Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gala, a heist, and finally - _finally_ \- our heroes come face to face.

This job is really more Nat’s thing than Clint’s. He’d tried to convince her that he would be more useful on a rooftop across the street, but she hadn’t listened. To be fair, she’s right and Clint’s not terrible at undercover. It’s the formalwear part that sucks. He hates tuxedos, and this thing is black tie. He’s been tugging at it since Nat helped him fasten the damn thing, so now it’s crooked and too loose, but it still feels too tight. Why do people have to make clothing so difficult?

It’s not their usual kind of gig, either. No one’s slated to die tonight, unless Clint really fucks this up. It would be easier if it were just a straight up assassination job, then he could be in one of the trees down to the east, wait for his moment, one shot, straight to the heart, and out of there. But no, today they’re Ocean’s Eleven. Except, instead of a casino, they’re robbing a computer. There’s still a vault, though, because apparently when you’re rich and paranoid, building a sealed vault under your California winery is an entirely acceptable thing to do.

At least Clint’s not going to be the one going down into said vault. He gets the fun job. It’s his turn to be the distraction while Nat does the actual work; she’s better with computers anyway. The only problem they’ve really got is that the sealed room is in a building that’s practically barricaded with about six levels of security. So, in order just to get through the door, they’ve had to wait for this ridiculous masquerade gala where more’s probably being spent on the decorations than will go to whatever charity it’s in aid of.

The place looks a little different from when Clint was here earlier, posing as one of the decorators and scoping the place out. Then all the decorations had been in boxes or wound up in bubble wrap, but now they’re on display and they’ve actually made a halfway decent job of making the place look Christmassy in spite of the bright sunshine.  The ballroom they’re standing in is festooned with tasteful Christmas decorations, though there’s not a tree in sight. It’s all silver and white as far as the eye can see, with crystal snowflakes hanging from invisible wires, some as big as Clint’s head.

Clint supposes it looks like someone’s idea of a winter wonderland. It reminds him more of the circus, the shine that they layered on with grease paint and sequins so that when they were in the ring, they looked like something from a fairy tale, but behind the banners and the glitz, was the dirt and animal shit.

The plan is simple enough. Nat’s getting the files while Clint’s on distraction duty, but first they have to wait for the right moment, when everyone’s gathered in one place to hear the hostess giving her speech. Until then, he just has to blend in and make polite conversation with people who have more money and own more land than Clint has ever imagined in his life. The mask he’s wearing makes it easier. He could be anyone behind the black leather, and no one would know. Once you’re through the door everyone assumes that you’re supposed to be here. He’s wearing the right suit, so he’s in the right place.

Doesn’t mean he feels any less ridiculous.

At least he’s not the most ridiculous looking person here. A woman walks past wearing a sapphire and diamond disaster round her neck that probably costs more than some of the lives that Clint has taken. It’s a special kind of obscene that he can really appreciate.

“ _Stop fiddling with your tie_ ,” Nat whispers through the comms. Clint doesn’t know how she got hers in, but his were easy enough - no one wants to take the deaf man’s hearing aids away. That’s easy for her to say, she doesn’t exactly have to wear one of these. He gives her a glare across the room to where she’s laughing at something someone has said, an ambassador or a duke or something, he thinks.

“One of these days I’m going to get you in one of these things and see how you like it,” he tells her, but he resists the urge to pull at it again and smiles politely at a woman who walks past in a dress that looks like someone skinned a peacock.

“ _Then you can wear the dress._ ” She replies, covering the movement of her lips by raising a hand to gracefully cover her mouth, as though she’s smiling too widely. Her dress is gold and sort of glittery with a mask to match. Clint thinks he could pull it off. He’s worn weirder things. The heels might be a problem, though.

“Sure,” he says. “I could pull that off.”

“You could pull what off?” a voice asks from behind him at the same time as Nat flicks her hair in his direction, a signal that she really wants to roll her eyes at him, but she can’t because she’s too busy being charming right now.

“That dress,” Clint says, gesturing to Nat as he turns to see who he’s speaking to and… oh shit. It’s Barnes. He swallows. He’d recognise those eyes and that jaw anywhere. And damn the guy looks good in a tux. Clint might have to think his whole anti-formalwear agenda, because he could get used to this. That. Barnes. In a tux. His brain is sputtering, but he manages to cover it up.

“The pink one?” Barnes asks, and Clint looks back to see an older lady standing on the far side of Nat, wearing something that looks a lot like an alligator attacked it. “Not sure it’s your colour.”

“I look ravishing in any colour,” Clint tells him, his mouth’s on automatic, which is good, because his brain’s still playing catch up. Barnes gives him an assessing up and down look that Clint can practically feel as it sweeps his body.

“I see you more as a purple kinda guy,” Barnes tells him and Clint has to smother the grin, because Barnes can’t possibly know how much he’s hit the nail on the head. There’s something off about Barnes though, and it takes Clint a moment to work out what it is – his hand. It’s not metal.

Or rather, it’s covered by something that isn’t metal. Maybe a rubber covering designed to look like a hand, or something, so he doesn’t draw attention. From the way he keeps stretching out the fingers, it can’t be comfortable – which answers the question about whether he can feel anything with that hand.  He’s holding the champagne glass, which seems to be an obligatory accessory at this party, in his other hand, although he keeps going to swap it to his left and stopping himself.

“Well, I am wearing purple underwear,” Clint says. It’s really not the sort of conversation that you’re supposed to have at these kinds of things, but if Clint has to congratulate one more person on their stock portfolio or political career he might drown himself in the punch bowl. Not that there is a punch bowl. Just champagne.

“Huh, what are the odds?” Bucky asks. His smile is just a little bit wicked.

What are the odds of SHIELD agents being at the very gala that Nat and he are intending to use as cover to steal several thousand dollars’ worth of top secret information? Clint’s going to bet this isn’t a crazy random happenstance. Clint lets his eyes sweep the room, looking for Rogers and, sure enough, there he is, talking to a redhead in a backless blue dress while being unhappily molested by an elderly countess that Clint’s already had a run-in with. The smile on his face is polite, but a little pained.

Bucky catches the direction of his gaze and chuckles.

“My friend,” Bucky says, not knowing the information is unnecessary. “I feel like I should rescue the guy,” Bucky says, sipping at the champagne. “But he’s the one who was telling me I needed to mingle, so I’m thinking maybe he should take his own advice.” Clint laughs in delight. He’s been through the social media posts and seen them from a distance, but, just like with the snoring on the plane, this is a little insight into the real side of the SHIELD agents who’ve been chasing him and Nat around the globe. It’s enough to make his insides twist a little bit. Stupid heart, making an idiot of itself again.

“If he’s the reason you’re talking to me, then maybe I should lend him a hand – to say thank you,” Clint says after a moment. The countess is really going to town. Rogers keeps gently pulling away, but her hand is determined to reach his ass.

“I think she’s lending him enough of a hand for now,” Bucky says with a huff of amusement. Rogers looks up, seeming to sense that they’re talking about him and his eyes fix on Bucky’s across the room. Bucky just gives a sadistic little wave and Rogers glares.

“You never know. He should make the most of it. I hear she’s loaded. Do you think your friend would be interested in being a kept man?”

“Not Steve’s style,” Bucky says with a shake of his head. “Now me, on the other hand…” He gives Clint a glance and Clint realises that he probably thinks that Clint is another of the rich assholes, which is a relief, because that’s what everyone’s supposed to think, and Clint was pretty sure his big mouth had ruined the impression, but it also makes Clint want to correct him. He’s got to admit he’s a bit tired of only ever talking to Bucky in character. He’d like to have a conversation where Bucky’s actually talking to him for once, not whatever his persona of the day is. But that’s a dangerous thought.

“Really?” Clint says with a glance of his own. “Is that why you’re here? Looking for a sugar daddy?”

“Nah, tonight is work, sadly,” Bucky says. “What about you? You don’t exactly look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I wasn’t, but my evening’s looking up,” Clint tells him. “Naw, these places give me a headache. Lots of people in expensive suits congratulating each other on the size of their assets.”

“Well, that definitely looks like an expensive suit,” Bucky says, his eyes lingering again in a way that makes Clint’s mouth dry and his brain get stuck. “And I’m sure your assets are… ample.”

It’s such a ridiculous line that even as Clint’s insides are melting a bit, he’s laughing. Bucky laughs with him after a moment and they’re laughing too hard and too honestly for the crowd around them, because they’re getting some dirty looks. Nat hisses in his ear to stop attracting so much attention and Clint has to pinch himself to calm down, making apologetic glances at the people around him. Bucky’s quiet, but his face is still laughing, his eyes are sparkling and crinkled at the corners. If Clint could take a picture right here and now, he would.

“Yeah, you’re definitely making things more interesting,” he says to Bucky. “Have you tried that line on all the boys, or am I just special?”

“Just you,” Bucky assures him, he’s looking more relaxed now too, his hand’s stopped its instinctive spasms and his shoulders are less rigid. “You looked about as happy to be here as me. Thought we might as well be miserable together.”

“If you were aiming for miserable, I think you missed.” Clint tells him. “But this is the best conversation I’ve had all evening.” Most of his conversations have been him acting as though he knows people, it’s been tiring, but he has got a dozen invitations to people’s country houses. Half the guests are now convinced he’s an old acquaintance and are feeling very guilty that they don’t remember him. He thinks that he left one poor woman convinced that he’s actually her nephew, though he’s not sure exactly how.

“It’s the first conversation I’ve had all evening,” Bucky tells him. “Like I said, Steve thought I should mingle.”

“Well, I’m honoured I made the cut.” Clint says.

They chat about Brooklyn, Clint admits to having visited a few times, Bucky talks a bit about growing up there. Even as they’re talking, Bucky’s always on alert, his eyes scanning the room, clearly still working, and he’s manoeuvred them so he’s got good lines of sight on everything, with a subtlety that Nat would have been proud of. Clint wouldn’t have noticed it himself if he didn’t know what was going on.

The conversation meanders through half a dozen different topics and Clint has completely forgotten that he was intending to stay far, far away from James Buchanan Barnes until he’d recovered from his hopeless crush. Instead he finds himself wading deeper and deeper into it, laughing at Bucky’s commentary about Steve’s hopeless fumblings at flirting when he first ‘hit his growth spurt’, which Clint’s translating as ‘got all shot up on SHIELD’s magical steroids’.

He doesn’t realise that the time’s crept past him until he gets a rude awakening.

“ _Stay on task, Hawkeye_ ,” Nat’s voice says in his ear. “ _Ten minutes until we’re go, and you’re going to need to lose him before then_.”

Clint checks the clock and, damn, she’s right. He’s got to get into position before the speeches start, without attracting any attention. Having a SHIELD agent at his side is really going to make that difficult.

So he just needs to get away from Bucky without him noticing where he’s going or realising that he isn’t coming back. Easy.

The getting away part is simple, in the end. He just has to step back at the right moment and a waitress bumps into him, dumping half a tray of champagne down his front. Clint catches the two glasses that tumble off the tray before they manage to hit the ground, there’s no need for the poor kid to get in any more trouble than she’s already going to be in, and she apologises profusely.

“My fault,” Clint tells her. “Never look where I’m going.” She dabs at his chest ineffectually with a cloth, but it doesn’t do much good. “Don’t suppose you can tell me where the restroom is.” She provides directions along with another apology and Clint gives Bucky a brief smile.

“Need a hand?” Bucky asks. Clint shakes his head, even as he holds in a groan. He would very much like to take Bucky up on that offer, but no. He’s got a job to do, and that would be a terrible idea. Brilliant, but terrible.

“I’m good.” He backs away and almost knocks into another waitress – by accident this time – on the way out, and fumbles around her.

*

Bucky huffs a little as the only decent conversation at this thing walks backwards out of the door. This whole thing’s been a waste of time, just as he knew it would be. Just as Steve knew it would be. Just like Fury and Hill and Coulson all knew. He reaches up to turn his comm back on to broadcast.

“Seen anything suspicious yet?” he asks, stretching out his left hand. The rubber glove they’ve stuck on it keeps catching in the joints, and it’s screwing up what little sensitivity it has. He’s had to avoid touching anything with it because he can’t tell how hard he’s gripping it and he’s been worried about smashing the fancy crystal champagne flute. He knows SHIELD would take it out of his wages.

“ _Not yet_ ,” Steve says, which Bucky already knows, because if Steve had seen anything suspicious, he would have mentioned it. “ _So you two seemed to be getting on pretty well_.”

“It was a conversation, Steve. Nothing to write home about,” Bucky tells him.

“ _So you’re not interested?_ ”

“No,” Bucky lies. He could be interested in the guy, he was attractive and funny. Good at conversation, seemed to be flirting back.

“ _’Cause you sort of seemed interested_ ,” Steve prompts.

“Are we here to work or gossip, Agent Rogers?” Bucky asks, putting on his best impression of Coulson. It has no effect.

“ _You said it yourself, this mission’s ridiculous._ ”

It was. The party’s host was convinced someone was after him based on nothing more than paranoia, as far as Bucky could tell. But it just so happened that he had some sort of vested interest in SHIELD, or their assets or something, so when he went to Fury and asked him for some personal SHIELD bodyguards, Fury said yes rather than risk losing his support, or his money, or something. And when he asked for Rogers and Barnes specifically, based on their recent records, Fury had told them to suck it up and take one for the team. Hawkeye and the Black Widow were still MIA, with Hawkeye having sent nothing since their mutual acknowledgement of stalking, so it wasn’t like there was anything better for them to do.

A trip to Napa hadn’t seemed that bad a price to pay for a night or two of boredom, but Bucky hadn’t been counting on just how boring the gala would be. He should have told Fury where he could stuff it.

“ _And he sort of seemed interested back_ ,” Steve goes on.

“Maybe keep your mind on the job,” Bucky says.

“ _I can multitask. I’m good like that._ ” Bucky glances over to where Steve’s standing. He’s managed to disentangle himself from the countess, who has gone off to find new blood, and he’s standing in the doorway, looking smug. “ _You should do something about it._ ”

“Not gonna happen,” Bucky says. “Work, remember.”

“ _Right_ ,” Steve says, but from the look on his face, Bucky can tell he’s disappointed.

“What about you?” Bucky asks. “You seem to have caught the eye of a few rich old ladies.” Steve grimaces.

“ _Work, remember_ ,” Steve throws back at him. Bucky grins, happy to have won that one.

“So, this seem like as much of a waste of time to you as it is to…” Bucky trails off as something catches the corner of his eye and shit… “Hawkeye.”

“ _What?_ ” Steve asks “ _Bucky are you-_ “

“No,” Bucky says, already moving. “Hawkeye, here. He’s just walked into the room. On your right.”

“ _How do you know…?_ ” Steve asks, but he trails off because he’s seen him too now. Not that he’s difficult to spot. He’s dressed like a fucking ninja, all in black, a mask covering the lower part of his face, eyes behind shades. But there’s no mistaking the bow that’s in his hand.

“Our entertainment!” The host shouts loudly, clapping his hands and Bucky feels the tension drain out of his body in a wave of relief.

“ _Not Hawkeye then_ ,” Steve says as the people around them start to applaud politely.

“What, the guy has a bow and arrow. What was I supposed to think?” Bucky asks.

“ _Maybe not that the assassin that we’ve been hunting for months just walked into the room in front of everyone,”_ Steve points out. Bucky has to concede the point, it’s not exactly a subtle way to play things.

“What’s he going to do?” Bucky asks. “Shoot the decorations?”

“ _Maybe. Who knows_.” Bucky glances over to see Steve shrug a little helplessly.

The archer bows and then straightens up, drawing back his bow. It goes against every instinct Bucky’s got to let him do that. He’s more than aware of what a bow like that can do to a person and there are a lot of people in this room. Something in his mind is telling him that something’s up with this. His inbuilt paranoia that he still hasn’t managed to shake since Afghanistan, he supposes. But letting an unknown, masked man that close to him with a weapon is making his skin feel itchy all over his body. His gun is a familiar presence in the holster under his arm, and he mentally checks the rest of his concealed weapons too, just in case.

He looks over at Steve again, and sees that he also looks a bit uncomfortable, so Bucky feels a bit better about it. It’s not just him.

They really should have asked about the entertainment before they arrived, though.

He moves to stand next to the host, they are supposed to be protecting him after all, so even if the guy is just the entertainment, Bucky should be in position in case something goes wrong.

The arrow is pointing directly at them when Bucky overhears the conversation between the host and his wife.

“I didn’t know this was what you had planned.” The host’s wife whispers.

“I thought you hired him,” the host replies.

Bucky’s gun’s in his hand before he registers, but a second later it’s flying out of it again as the arrow hits it.

“ _What_?” Steve asks.

Three more arrows and the security cameras in the room are taken out.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the archer says. “But I’m on a bit of a schedule.”

It is fucking Hawkeye. Bucky pulls his second gun and aims it at him. Shit, this is not how he saw this encounter going down.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you Agent Rogers,” Hawkeye says and Bucky sees Steve coming up behind him. “If you move any closer, I’m afraid the next arrow will go through Agent Barnes’ head.”

Bucky can’t see Hawkeye’s eyes through the sunglasses, but he can feel them, just like he can feel the arrow pointing at him.

“SECURITY!” The senator shouts. “Where the fuck are security?”

Bucky wants to tell him to shut up, but he can’t spare the energy. He’s too busy trying to decide if Hawkeye’s going to shoot him. Steve’s obviously convinced he will, because he’s frozen in place after the threat to Bucky’s life.

“You ain’t gonna kill me,” Bucky says with sudden certainty. He’s aware of the audience and he straightens up. “You would’ve done it in Dubai if you were going to.”

“You weren’t in the way in Dubai,” Hawkeye says. “Agent Rogers, I told you not to move.” Steve freezes again. Steve can’t sneak for toffee. He tries, but somehow he just ends up making more noise when he’s sneaking than when he’s walking normally, Bucky’s tried to teach him how, but it’s in Steve’s nature to draw attention and he’s never worked out how not to.

“Are you going to shoot me, Agent Barnes?” Hawkeye asks, there’s a lilt to his voice that suggests that behind the mask he’s got a smug grin on his face.

Bucky’s finger tightens on the trigger, but he doesn’t pull it.

“Shoot him, for god’s sake!” the senator’s wife screams.

Security bursts in, distracting Bucky for a split second as he works out who it is, that time is long enough for Hawkeye to whirl round and land a couple of punches on Steve, not that they’ll do him any good in the long run. Steve’s like the Energiser bunny these days, you can’t keep him down.

“Time for me to go,” Hawkeye says. “Great seeing you both again, though. Sorry about the nose Agent Rogers.”

“Sorry about the-?” Steve asks. He lunges for Hawkeye , managing to grab his arm just at the moment he looses the arrow, sending it off course so it flies between the senator and his wife, narrowly missing them and the people behind them, burying itself in the wall.

Bucky drags the senator and his wife down into a duck even as the arrow’s sailing past them and looks up in time to see Steve and Hawkeye fighting each other, but Steve’s taken off guard by how quick the guy is. Bucky should have expected it, but it seems like Hawkeye’s not just good with a bow long distance. He’s good at hand to hand, too.

“ _Get the senator out of here_ ,” Steve says. “ _I’ve got this_.” Hawkeye’s fist flies into his face and he stumbles back.

There’s a moment where Bucky’s not sure what exactly is happening, and he’s usually good at following fights. He’s had more training than most, but it looks like Hawkeye’s going to kick Steve, when actually it’s more like he’s running up him, using Steve’s height to give him a boost so he can spin over the security guards who are gathering around him and head for the open door.

“Steve…” Bucky says, torn between the job and the pursuit.

“ _Keep the senator safe,_ ” Steve says.

*

So that went well. Clint thinks. He managed not to get his ass handed to him by Rogers, and now he has every security guy in the compound on his ass, which was the plan. It’s suddenly seeming like a terrible plan. But as long as they’re looking at him they’re not noticing Natasha breaking into the top secret vault underground.

“ _I’m at the vault door_ ,” Nat whispers in his ear. “ _From the sounds of it, I take it you’re having fun_.”

“Nothing like being chased by eight angry men to get the blood pumping. Best workout available.”

“ _You should release a video_ ,” Nat tells him.

“Hawkeye’s workouts for criminally good abs?” Clint thinks about it for a moment. “Sounds like a winner.”

“ _Definitely._ ”

The security guards are fitter than he took them for. Now he just needs to work out how to get enough space between them for the next stage of his plan to actually work.  He risks a glance behind him. Yup, still eight – no nine – angry men. Rogers doesn’t look like he liked being punched in the nose. Clint’s going to have to apologise for that again. None of them looks very happy, actually. Hawkeye: making friends and influencing people at a venue near you!

He has a stroke of luck when he manages to make it to a turning before his pursuers are in sight by vaulting over a table of finger food, and puts on a burst of speed so he can get into the far room in time.

It’s the room with the big sliding patio doors, which is exactly what Clint was aiming for. He is on a roll this evening! He doesn’t have long, but he slides them open, then heads for the air vent in the ceiling. One fringe benefit of having a temperature-controlled vault in the basement with a massive server in – the entire house is rigged with nifty, industrial-sized air vents.

Clint only just manages to get the cover back in place before the door bursts open and the security guards pile into the room. He gives them a small wave that they don’t see and proceeds to stage two. With any luck, they’ll be searching the grounds for the invisible man for a while yet.

The trick to a good heist is not to let the mark know you’ve got away with what you came for. Always make them think you’re after something else. So he’s on his way to make them look one way while Nat cleans them out.

Turns out the senator’s a blood-thirsty sort of soul. He’s got a rather extensive collection of antique weaponry on the second floor and Clint’s going to go and take a look at it. He’s heard there are a few things he might be interested in, and since he’s here…

The vent leads directly to the room. The sheer number of old things in it mean that it needs to have some very tight temperature controls on it, but it’s nowhere near as tightly locked up as the basement.

“How you doing, Nat?” He asks as he makes his way through the vents.

“ _I’m onto the system. Just about to download the files_. _Where are you_?”

“Going to do a little shopping.”

“ _Pick me up something nice_ ,” she tells him.

“Of course,” he agrees.

He wasn’t able to plot out the layout of the vents fully on his earlier reconnaissance, but he finds the collection room quickly enough and he lowers himself down into the room as lightly as he can. The cameras are still out, thanks to the virus Nat has plugged into the security system, and all the alarms on the cases should be out too, so that just leaves Clint to decide exactly what he’s going to take. He rubs his hands together. So much choice, so little time.

*

“They’re searching the grounds,” Steve says, when he reaches the enclosed study where Bucky is trying to convince the senator to enter his panic room. His nose is turning purple, but there’s no blood. He’ll be fine.

“I invited you here specifically to prevent something like this from happening,” the senator says, glaring between them. “When I spoke to Fury he assured me that you were professional and-“

“You’re alive,” Bucky says. “We were hired to keep you that way.”

“There is a rogue assassin running around on my property and you two are in here…”

“Protecting you,” Steve says, his voice making it clear how much he enjoys that task.

“You should be out there searching for him too,” the senator says.

“If we went out there to search for him, you’d be unprotected, and then you’d be dead,” Bucky points out. He doesn’t bother to sugarcoat it and he sees the look on Steve’s face. “As it is, you’re lucky to be alive.”

“If he hadn’t missed,” Steve says. The word pulls at something in Bucky’s mind.

“What did you say?” he asks.

“If he hadn’t missed…” Steve says.

“He doesn’t miss,” Bucky says. He looks at Steve, Steve looks back, the senator’s saying something again, but it’s not important because something is very wrong with this picture. He remembers the arrow sliding cleanly between the people, sticking itself harmlessly into the far wall. The gap between those people had been tiny. The odds of the arrow being knocked off course and _not hitting_ any of the people standing there were minuscule.

“I knocked him...” Steve points out.

“Why was he even in the room to begin with?” Bucky asks. Steve shrugs.

“There were a lot of people? He wanted a clean shot.”

“If they were worried about that, they would have gone for another approach. He could have been outside and still made it, or the Widow could have made it.”

“The Widow?” The senator asks.

“His partner,” Steve says. “Where was she…?”

“He was the distraction,” Bucky says. “The senator wasn’t the target. He was the dummy.”

“Excuse me?” The senator asks and Bucky whirls on him. They’ve been played.

“Your security, where are they?” he asks.

“Out looking for that man, like you should be!” he tells them. Bucky rolls his eyes. Of course they are.

“Maybe it’s not an assassination,” Steve says, thoughtfully. Bucky looks up. “The file, it says they do other work, not as often, but they’ve been known to do espionage and thefts.” He turns to the senator. “Do you keep any privileged information on the premises?” The senator shakes his head.

“I come here to get away from all of that,” he says.

“Anything especially valuable?” Steve asks.

“Everything in this building is valuable,” the senator protests. “My wife likes to collect art. I have a collection of rare weaponry upstairs.”

“All this for an old knife?” Bucky says. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“There might… be a safe,” the senator says after a moment. “I do have some files in there, nothing important to national security,” he hastily adds. “But, some of the information might be sensitive.”

“Sensitive?”

“Damaging to certain people’s careers.”

“Where is it?”

“In the room with my weapon collection,” he says. “The next floor up, second room on the right.”

“You stay here,” Bucky says. “I’m going to go and take a look.”

“You think the Widow’s up there?” Steve asks. Bucky shrugs as he checks his gun over. The arrow doesn’t seem to have done it any harm in the long run, but there is a wicked gouge in the side of it. It should fire alright, though.

“Could be either of them,” he says. “You stay here.” Steve nods.

“Keep in touch,” he says and Bucky nods before jogging out of the room.

The house is a sprawling mess of a building, that probably seemed a really good design in some architect’s wet dream, but it’s definitely not Bucky’s favourite place. He finds the stairs, based on the mental floor plan he’s drawn up and takes them two at a time.

The collection room has a heavy duty door and a biometric scanner next to it. As Bucky hadn’t thought to bring the senator’s fingerprints or eyes with him, he’s going to have to do this the difficult way.

*

Clint’s grabbed a few small keepsakes and busted into the safe to add to that authentic robbery flavour when he hears the banging on the door. Time’s up.

“Nat, I’m gonna have to bail. Where are you?” He asks, zipping up his bag.

“ _Heading for the garage. I’ll be with you shortly._ ”

“Great. I’m on my way.” He pulls out his bow and a sonic arrow. The glass is reinforced, but not bullet proof; an ordinary arrow won’t do the trick, but the sonic arrow’s a pretty safe bet. His position’s already compromised, so it’s not like he’s got anything to lose. He flicks his hearing aids off first, one of the great advantages of being deaf, and draws back his bow.

Two things happen at once. The arrow hits the glass, dead centre for the best effect, and the door buckles under the strength of Barnes’ metal arm. Clint turns to look at him and they gape at each other for a second before Clint realises that he took his mask off a few minutes ago because his face was getting all hot and damp under the fabric from his breath. Shit.

The sonic arrow screams. Clint can still hear it, even with his hearing aids off, it’s that loud, but it sounds far away. Barnes doesn’t have any such advantage and he ducks, covering his ears with his hands.

Cracks appear across the glass and Clint grabs the bag, heading towards the window. It only takes one good kick to force the glass to smash all the way, and as soon as the pane’s gone, he turns his hearing aids back on.

“I will shoot you,” Barnes says. And Clint turns around, one foot on the window sill.

“ _I’m on my way_ ,” Nat says in his ear.

He stares at Bucky. Bucky stares back.

“Don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” Clint says, giving a cheery wave and running with it, because sometimes you’ve just got to throw the plan out the window. “I’m Hawkeye.” He bows slightly, sweeping his hand out to the side.

His heart is beating a little too fast and the adrenaline’s pumping through his veins. He hasn’t been this close to being caught in years and the idea of being face to face with Bucky, of being _seen_ … it makes him a bit crazy. He needs to move and Barnes is just standing there, staring at him like he’s a miracle. It’s just too inviting. There’s the gun, of course, but Clint’s pretty sure Bucky’s not going to kill him. He would have done it by now.

He moves forward and Bucky doesn’t pull the trigger. He’s stepping right up into Bucky’s personal space and this is a terrible idea, but what the hell, it’s not like he’s ever going to get another chance. He’d like to know what it’s like before his inevitable death.

He swoops in and their faces collide. It’s messy and too hard and glorious. He’s kissing Bucky Barnes. His heart’s doing strange, horrible things in his chest and he feels too hot all over. The antsy feeling beneath his skin isn’t going anywhere, it’s like he could do anything right in that moment. He feels invincible, and Bucky’s mouth has opened slightly, just enough for him to-

“ _I’m heading your way, twenty seconds_ ,” Nat says, breaking the moment. Clint forces himself to pull away. He darts back, and the surge of euphoria disappears, leaving him feeling like more than a bit of an idiot. But at least his ploy seems to have left Barnes off balance; the gun isn’t quite as direct anymore.

There are footsteps in the corridor and Clint crosses back to the window sill again, not taking his eyes off Bucky, not really knowing how.

“Gotta go,” he says. “See you around, Barnes.”

And maybe doing the backflip down onto the lawn below is showing off, just a little bit. But Clint’s still riding the blank high of utter shock because he just kissed Bucky and he hasn’t been shot.

There’s a screech of tyres behind him and he turns to see Nat pull up in a convertible. Guess that answers why she was heading for the garage then. He jumps into the passenger seat and gives a little wave back to where Bucky is now leaning out of the broken window.

As they race away, a few bullets ping off the vehicle, but none close enough to anything vital, which means Bucky probably isn’t one of the shooters.

Clint groans and drops his head back against the leather head rest.

“What did you do?” Nat asks.

“Something really stupid,” he replies.

“Nothing new there then,” she says. Clint guesses that if he was looking for sympathy he was talking to the wrong person. “How stupid?”

“More stupid than Prague. Less stupid than Singapore,” Clint estimates. Singapore had been special, even by his standards. Nat winces.

“What did you do?” she repeats, driving more normally now. It’ll take the crew back at the vineyard some time to muster up a chase, and Nat’s excellent at losing a tail, Clint’s not worried about that.

“I kissed him,” Clint admits. Nat rolls her eyes, but her shoulders relax a bit.

“Well he didn’t shoot you, so you can’t have been that bad at it.”

“He’s a SHIELD agent,” Clint points out.

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“His job is hunting us down,” Clint does not understand why she’s being so calm about this.

“Then I guess you’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“He knows what I _look like_ ,” Clint says, his voice perilously close to a wail.

“I imagine that a relationship would be a little difficult if he didn’t,” Nat says and no. No one said anything about a relationship. This is a mess, it’s a huge fucking mess and Clint is going to end up heartbroken eating midnight ice cream with Nat in Tokyo or something, but there is no relationship. “You weren’t caught on camera.” She sighs. “This was always going to happen eventually. They’re good.”

“He’ll catch us,” Clint says.

“He won’t turn you in,” Nat tells him. She sounds sure of herself. He wishes he knew why. “And if he does, I’ll stop him.” Clint doesn’t ask how. He doesn’t want to know.

“Did you at least get what you were looking for?” he asks her, changing the subject with no attempt at subtlety.

Nat nods.

“You going to tell me what that is?” he asks.

“Not yet,” she tells him. “I’m seeing if it pans out.”

*

“It was supposed to be an easy job.” Fury is living up to his name. Bucky and Steve stand side-by-side in his office, Coulson alongside them, and Bucky feels like he’s back in the principal’s office all over again, trying to explain how he and Steve had ended up with bruised knuckles and split lips.

He feels just as defiant as he used to back then as well. He knows that Steve does too, can see it in the set of his shoulders, even if they are much broader now, and the pig-headed jut of his jaw. This is not going to end well.

“We were told it was a threat to the senator’s person,” Steve says, “not a robbery. We were working on faulty intelligence.”

“Two fully trained, _level six_ SHIELD agents couldn’t handle a robbery. Not only did the thieves get away with priceless historical artefacts – a ceremonial dagger from the fourth century and a mongol bow – they also left with highly confidential information taken from the senator’s private safe and _in one of his cars_.”

“We can’t work blind!” Steve protests. “If Bucky hadn’t realised what was going on-“

“ _Agent Barnes_ ’ actions are also raising question marks,” Fury says. Bucky looks with fierce determination at the far wall, his face a fortress. His actions are raising question marks for him as well. He’d just… stood there. And Hawkeye’s mouth against his, he can almost feel it still. He tells himself it was shock, that he’d been taken off guard by the move. But–

Fury’s still talking: “He left you and the senator over a minute and a half before the senator’s security team followed him up to the second floor. What exactly did you do in that time, Agent Barnes?”

“The door was reinforced,” Bucky says, keeping his voice as steady as he can. “I had to break it down.”

“And that took you all that time, did it?” Fury asks.

“It was heavily reinforced,” Bucky adjusts, still not looking away from the far wall.

“Yet your statement here says you entered the room to see the window break,” Fury says. Bucky doesn’t answer, he knows what his statement says. “The sound of the arrow breaking the window was what alerted the security team to what was going on. They heard that and ran to your location. At my estimate it would have taken them almost forty five seconds to do so. You claim that as soon as the window broke, the security team arrived and Hawkeye jumped out of the window. Do you want to revise your previous statement, Agent?”

“It may have been longer than that,” Bucky says, because he can’t say anything else. “I aimed my gun at him and told him not to move.”

“You didn’t shoot him?”

“He wasn’t armed,” Bucky says.

“He had his bow, Agent Barnes,” Fury says.

“It was over his shoulder,” Bucky replies. This is getting out of hand. He should have thought about the timings more carefully when he was writing his report, should have predicted this, but he hadn’t been thinking. He knows that Steve is looking at him. Up until this point he’s pretty much accepted Bucky’s version of things, but he’s going to be asking questions now. “He didn’t present a clear threat.”

“And you wanted to stick to the letter of the law,” Fury states. “We’re SHIELD, Barnes. Hawkeye’s an international fugitive caught in a criminal act. No one would have cared if you’d shot the man.”

_I would have cared_ , Bucky thinks and squashes the thought because that’s a dangerous thing to think.

“He saved my life once,” Bucky says instead, aiming for something that everyone can understand rather than trying to explain the strange churning in his stomach and the slight giddiness in his head that come when he thinks about the kiss. “I…”

“Your sense of honour is commendable,” Fury says. “But it’s not exactly why I hired you. I have witness reports here that say when security entered the room you were…” he pauses for effect and raises the tablet, as though to find what he wants to say, though Bucky knows it’s a tactic. Silence is always uncomfortable. “ _Standing still in the middle of the room. His gun was pointing at the floor. The thief jumped out of the window and got into a car._ ”

Bucky straightens up even more.

“Do you have something to say to that, Agent Barnes?”

He can sense Steve shifting beside him, Fury notices it too, because his attention shifts.

“Bucky-“ Steve starts.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Agent Rogers. Trust me, your turn will come. Agent Barnes, can you explain why your gun was pointing at the floor and you apparently took no action to apprehend the thief?”

“Eye witness reports are notoriously unreliable,” Bucky says. It’s not a lie, it’s not an explanation, but it is a statement of fact and he doesn’t think ‘he kissed me and I just let him do it and I sort of wanted to do it again’ would really cut it.

“You know what’s more reliable than eye witnesses?” Fury asks. “Forensic science and I have documented proof that of the five people present in that room only one did not discharge their weapon. I don’t think I have to say whose weapon that was.”

“I saw no need for lethal force,” Bucky say. “The thief took no aggressive action towards me.”

“He was escaping with national secrets,” Fury says, his tone incredulous. “That’s treason, Agent Barnes. You didn’t have to kill him. You could have shot him in the ass for all I care and we both know that if you wanted to you could have shot the tyres off that car. So I have to ask why you didn’t.”

Bucky doesn’t have an answer, but luckily Steve seems to have enough answer for both of them.

“And we all know what you think of Bucky’s shooting,” he says. Bucky starts, because there’s a bitter, angry edge to the comment that implies Steve knows something he shouldn’t. Bucky doesn’t get a chance to ask ‘what the fuck’ before Fury speaks.

“Since you seem so determined to have my attention, Agent Rogers, is there something you’d like to say?”

“You know what I have to say,” Steve says. He sounds dangerous. There’s a conversation going on under the surface here that Bucky’s not privy to, but he has a feeling that it’s about him and that rubs him up the wrong way. He sneaks a look at Coulson, to see if he understands what’s going on, but his expression is blank and professional as ever.

“Yes, I do,” Fury says. “And like I told you last time you were in here, what I choose to do with my agents is frankly none of your business.”

Bucky didn’t even know that Steve had been to Fury’s office before.

“The senator is asking for your heads,” Fury says. “I’m tempted to give them to him. In addition to failing to stop the robbery that occurred right under your noses, he reports that you were also rude and refused to do your jobs properly.”

Bucky knows they could manage without SHIELD, but he also knows that Steve likes to think he’s making a difference, that he’s been happier with himself in the past few years than he’d been in all the time Bucky’s known him. It’s like he found what he was meant to do. He doesn’t want to take that away from him.

“It’s been an honour working with you,” Steve says.

“You don’t get it over with that easily, Agent Rogers,” Fury says. “The senator’s a short-sighted man with an exaggerated understanding of his own importance. Sadly, he’s got a lot of pull within this agency and he’s raising questions about your loyalties. I have to take some action, or he will escalate this.” Fury sits down, steepling his fingers together and looking at the pair of them. “In light of that, you’re both suspended from active duty, starting first thing tomorrow. Take some time off, take a vacation. Play golf or whatever it is you do when you’re not being pains in my ass.” He turns away abruptly. “Agent Coulson will take you to hand in your badges and guns and pick up your things.”

Coulson nods and steps forward.

“If you’ll come with me.”

The elevator ride is tense. Steve’s thrumming with anger, practically vibrating with it and Coulson’s just sort of, pleasantly there. Bucky’s pretty calm, all things considered. He would’ve thought he’d be angry, but he’s not. It’s not as bad as he thought it would be.

“So you saw Hawkeye?” Coulson says, watching the floors count down. Bucky nods roughly, but Steve starts, like he’s gearing up for a fight. Coulson must notice, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. “You know they found the car?” Bucky doesn’t reply. “It was returned the next day by a valeting service, fully cleaned, not a scratch on it. And they found something in the trunk.” He reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out his phone, opens something up on it and hands it to Bucky.

It’s a photograph of the trunk of a car. There’s a plastic toy bow and arrow lying in the middle of it.

“Swipe right,” Coulson says, so Bucky does. The next picture shows a scrap of paper with a note written on it.

_‘Sorry for crashing the party. Hope this makes up for it. We think it might be more your speed._ ’ There is no signature, just a tiny arrow and what looks like two triangles, joined at their points, a little like an hourglass, like the mark on the back of a black widow spider. Bucky can’t keep himself from huffing with laughter.

“Who’ll be working the case now?” Bucky asks and Coulson just shrugs.

“Not sure yet. The senator’s insisting we make it a top priority. But Fury will assign whoever he sees fit.”

“Whoever he wants to get out of his hair,” Bucky says, remembering what Fury told him the last time he was in his office.

“Something like that,” Coulson agrees.

The elevator _dings_ to announce its arrival at the same time as Coulson’s phone vibrates. He looks  down at it. “I’m afraid I’ve got to leave you for a moment. Please clear out your desks and return your firearms, I’m sure you remember where everything is.” They start to leave, but as the elevator doors start to close he holds out a hand to stop them. “Your access to the SHIELD network will be revoked tomorrow morning. It goes without saying that you really shouldn’t access it before then.” He holds Steve’s eyes for a second in a way that Bucky doesn’t understand, but they both nod and Coulson lets the doors slide shut.

They clean out their desks and hand over their badges and guns. Steve’s still fuming. Bucky’s impressed he’s managed to keep it in this long, but he manages to make it out onto the street before he snaps and starts talking.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” he asks. Bucky shrugs, this conversation is about to go somewhere he’d prefer not to follow. “Cause he was right about the timing. You were there long enough to take him down; I’ve seen you fight. But you just let him go.”

“It all happened quite fast,” Bucky says, which is true. One minute he was pointing a gun at the guy, the next their lips were fastened together and Bucky was trying to work-out whether he wanted to shove the guy away or pull him in closer. It’s a bit like a crazy dream, except it must have happened, because Bucky just got suspended for it.

“I know when you’re tryin’ to avoid a subject,” Steve says.

“What about you, huh?” Bucky asks. “You think I didn’t know something was up back there. What were you and Fury talkin’ about? That crack about my shootin’. What was that supposed to mean?” He asks and he knows he’s hit on something because Steve’s mouth stops halfway to his next word.

“What?” Steve asks, trying for innocent and failing miserably. The guy’s guilty face is a sight to behold. Oh, this is gonna be good.

“Fury called me up for not shooting out the tyres and you said ‘we all know what you think about Bucky’s shooting.’ What did that mean, Steve?”

“Buck, don’t be mad. I’m on your side.”

“My side?” Bucky turns to him. His hands balled into fists, because he’s definitely going to be mad and Steve knows it. He’s just not sure what he’s mad about yet. “What is my side, exactly, Steve?”

“I… I know about the mission,” Steve says slowly. He reaches up to rest a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “The solo one.”

“That was classified.”

“I know, but they shouldn’t be usin’ you like that, Buck.”

Bucky blinks. Of all the cock-headed, short-sighted, arrogant-

“Usin’ me?” he demands, crossing his arms. He sees Steve’s eyes slip to the metal of his forearm. Definitely something to do with HYDRA then.

“After what HYDRA did-“

“Not everything’s about HYDRA!” Bucky shouts. He can’t even care that they’re having this argument in the middle of the street, because Steve needs to get his damn head on straight. “Tell me you didn’t argue with Fury about this behind my back.”

“He shouldn’t have-“

“Why the fuck not?” Bucky demands. “I was a sniper before HYDRA got their hands on me, Steve. I was shooting people for the army before I shot people for them.”

“I know but…”

“I could have said no. I could have refused to do it. No one forced me to say yes. I agreed because I was the best person for the job and because it needed doin’.”

“Bucky I didn’t ask you to join SHIELD so they could treat you like an assassin.”

“I am a fucking assassin. Don’t treat me like a child!” Bucky lowers his voice to hiss, but there’s no less anger behind the words. “Whether you like it or not, I have the skills and experience to do things that other people can’t and it doesn’t matter how I got those skills. If I can do something with them that will actually make a difference, then I’m going to do it. Because I _choose_ to. Because I actually get to choose that now, and I do. I don’t need you goin’ behind my back to tell people _my choices_ aren’t valid.”

He looks around, there’s a cab nearby and he hails it.

“I think I’d best go stay with Becca for a while,” he says.

“Bucky,” Steve says, but Bucky doesn’t look back. His hands are itching to punch something, and if he doesn’t step away right now, he’s going to break Steve’s face.

Steve doesn’t follow him.

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES! They have met, face to face. And kissed - after a fashion. And it only took 50,000 words to make it happen.
> 
> Sorry about the Steve-Bucky problems, but Bucky needs some time alone right now.
> 
> Also, I keep forgetting to put this on here, but I do have a [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mariana-oconnor), which some of you have already found. Feel free to take a look. There is WinterHawk stuff, but I reblog anything that interests me.


	8. Here, There and Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Bucky and Steve are taken off the case, Clint tries to get back into the swing of things by messing with their replacements. Meanwhile, Bucky spends a lot of time on his sister's sofa _not_ thinking about Hawkeye's stupid face, Natasha has a plan, and Steve looks deeper into the inconsistencies in the SHIELD files

**Dublin**

It’s in Dublin’s fair city that Clint first lays his eyes on Barnes and Rogers’ replacements.

He’s not expecting it. He’s expecting to see Barnes slouching on a bench somewhere, while Rogers attempts not to stand out like a sore thumb. No, Clint’s being too harsh, Rogers has got a lot better at blending in. He’s sort of proud of the man. He’s expecting things to get awkward, because Barnes knows what he looks like. Even apart from the kiss, things are going to be messed up now. Because it’s one thing to play cat and mouse with someone who’s never seen you as more than a shadow or a movement in the corner of his eye, it’s an entirely different thing to play with someone who’s stood right in front of you and looked you in the eye. He knows things are going to change, but he isn’t prepared for _this_.

He’s not prepared to turn his head to look down the riverbank and see two people who are obviously SHIELD agents, and just as obviously not Rogers or Barnes, just a little distance away. He almost blows his cover with his surprise.

It’s got to be a coincidence. Has to be, SHIELD probably has a presence in Dublin.

Now maybe he and Nat have got a little bit complacent with SHIELD’s constant presence. If two newcomers have found them this easily.

Normally Clint quite likes Dublin. It’s a nice enough city, and the sheer amount of shamrock covered shit they manage to shovel at the tourists is a wonder to behold. In some of the places with the highest foot traffic it’s like every day’s St Patrick’s Day. Clint has always sort of wanted to collect the sparkly shamrock keyrings they sell, but his lifestyle doesn’t really mesh well with hoarding.

But, standing by the river, eating a baked potato out of a foam carton and seeing two SHIELD agents he does _not_ recognise where he’s expecting to see old friends is a shock to the system.

He pushed too far.

The kiss. That fucking kiss. He had to do it, didn’t he? Had to throw himself – heart and lips first – at the guy. He’ll never learn and Nat’s right. His shoulders slump and the potato loses its taste in his mouth. Nat’s always right about these things. He’s an idiot and he’s ruined everything. Not that there was anything to ruin. Some flirty text messages and a deep abiding lust for the way a man holds a rifle are not exactly the basis of a healthy and mutually supportive relationship.

Not to mention that whole ‘different sides of the law thing’. Best not to forget that.

The new agents don’t look half as fun, but Clint may be biased. A short woman with small eyes and a pointy chin and a guy who looks like he probably spends three hours on his hair.

So he scared Barnes off. So he misread things. It’s not the end of the world. People get shot down every day, and at least Barnes didn’t use his gun to do it.

Clint can’t quite summon a smile at the thought.

What was Clint expecting, anyway? Something out of a trashy airport romance novel, where their eyes met across the River Liffey and then they run to make out in the middle of a bridge, unable to hold back their passion one moment more.

No. This is best. Better than best. This way Clint doesn’t have to worry about not being able to do what needs to be done. He’d be able to shoot either of these newbies through the eye, no question.

He texts Nat.

 _‘Looks like there’s been a reshuffle at SHIELD HQ_.’ He snaps a picture of the pair, looking exactly like undercover SHIELD agents pretending to be regular people, and sends that too.

‘ _Can you get any closer?’_ she asks. Clint responds with a rolling-eye emoji. He’s not Nat, but he’s still a professional.

There’s a group of tourists following a floppy fake sunflower as they get a glimpse of Dublin’s historic docklands, so he tags along a little way, until he’s close enough to hear the agents bickering. It takes some focus, but there's not enough wind to cause his hearing aids much of a problem.

“Look, I’m telling you,” the woman’s saying. “Rogers and Barnes weren’t even trained for this. It’s going to be easy.” Clint leans back on the railing, watching the pair of them as closely as he can without being noticed. “I mean, honestly,” she continues, “they probably made most of it up and used the opportunity to take a vacation.”

“You think that’s why they got suspended?” the guys asks. Clint clamps down his reaction, but his mind’s buzzing. Suspended? That’s not good.

“I heard it was because Barnes punched a senator in the face.”

Suspended. Clint lets the conversation fade into background noise as he seizes on the comment.

He’s got no doubt why that happened.

For a horrible second, he thinks SHIELD saw that messy, fucked up excuse for a kiss. But no, agents Nosey and Dozy would know what he looks like then. But still, it’s got to have been that job.

Clint had been riding so high off it all. Not just the kiss, but all of it: being face-to-face with Bucky, playing the pantomime villain, escaping in the senator’s own car. It had been one of those glorious days when you get out by the skin of your teeth and you feel invincible. The sort of days when you backflip off window sills just to impress a pretty SHIELD agent. He hadn’t even considered what it must look like from the other side. While he’d been busy running rings around SHIELD and security, Bucky had been busy failing to do his job. And now he and Rogers were suspended. Nosey and Dozy were taking their jobs and bitching about them behind their backs.

What was, to Clint, a perfect heist and a smooth getaway, had landed Bucky and Rogers in some shit.

Clint hasn’t texted since then. He hasn’t had a clue what to say. He knows the kiss was a turning point, but he hadn’t realised he’d screwed up this badly. People don’t flirt with criminals who very nearly cost them their jobs.

“-well. Rogers has the makings of a decent agent,” the female agent is saying now, as Clint’s brain chooses to try listening again. “But Barnes is a liability. He just wasn’t ready for a promotion of that magnitude. Did you know he was only level two before they put him on this case? I don’t know what Coulson was thinking.”

Fuck that. Clint’s not going to listen to this. Bucky never stood three feet away from him bitching about his co-workers. Bucky is damn good at his job. It’s not his fault that Clint fucked with his head. He needs to know who these idiots are, and he needs to take them down a peg or two.

His pickpocketing skills come in handy once more, as he meanders past the pair of them and comes out heavier by two wallets. He takes them and wanders down the river side, trying not to think about Bucky Barnes. It’s about as effective as it usually is.

Clint must walk half a mile or more, his brain spinning its wheels, before he actually looks in the wallets.

Agents Samantha Parker and Gabriel Rodgriguez, level six agents. Huh, looks like SHIELD updated the design. He’ll have to let Nat know.

He doesn’t bother keeping the cards, just flings them into the water. The credit card, however, that he keeps, along with the dollars and euros he finds.  He uses the credit card to order a set of really cheesy looking romance novels and has them sent to SHIELD HQ with Parker’s name on them, then he searches for nearby dogs homes and donates a few thousand to each of them. You’ve got to give back.

He leaves the credit card in a gutter and heads back to the hotel, but when he gets there he can’t bring himself to go upstairs, and walks into the bar instead. He’ll be grown up about things tomorrow; today he wallows in self-pity.

When Nat finds him at ten pm, she looks fresh as a daisy and the contrast is another little needle sticking into his brain. She doesn’t ask questions, just downs a couple of shots with him before carrying him back to the room.

When they leave the next day, they’re sure to cover their tracks more thoroughly than ever. They lay at least five fake trails that lead to some of the world’s finest shitholes, and Clint won’t deny that that makes him feel a little better.

*

**New York**

Steve texts Bucky five times before Bucky even makes it to Becca’s apartment block. They’re all apologies, but the bitter taste of anger is still coating his tongue and Bucky knows he needs some time _away_. Time to think and consider and time without Steve. He loves the guy, but since they were assigned the Hawkeye case, they’ve barely spent an hour apart.

No, since before that. They’ve practically been joined at the hip since the first time Bucky came back to himself in an army hospital in Afghanistan, Steve’s newly-muscled arms wrapped tight around his own to stop Bucky from hurting a nurse.

He’s sure _before_ they used to spend more time apart and live separate lives, but he can’t imagine it anymore. Even though he knows he needs this separation, he can’t help feeling like something’s missing.

Becca hands him a beer as he sits on her sofa, looking around. The place looks lived in, with softened edges and scraps of her life in the corners and underneath things. She also has a cat, who eyes him suspiciously for a few minutes before flouncing out of the room in a cloud of indignation and fluff.

“So, Steve called,” Becca says, nonchalant as you like. Bucky just grunts. She doesn’t need more ammunition, she’s already got a lifetime of it. “Apparently you’re not speaking to him because he’s an idiot.”

“Sounds about right.”

“And he’s worried about you because ‘ _classified’_.” Becca gives the word honest to god finger quotes.

“Steve worries too much,” Bucky says. “An’ he is an idiot.”

“Not arguing with that,” Becca tells him. “But you guys haven’t fallen out since you were fourteen and you thought Steve accused you of cheating on your math test.”

“I’m good at math!”

“Not the point.” Becca waves a finger imperiously in the air and Bucky wonders exactly when his life got to the point that his little shit of a little sister gets to tell him off. “The point is: Steve’s worried, should I be worried too?”

Bucky glares at the blank screen of Becca’s beat up old TV.

“I’m gonna take your gloomy silence as a yes, you realise,” she says, opening her own beer with a hiss. “So does the reason Steve’s worrying have anything to do with why you two aren’t talking?”

“Does it matter? Maybe?” Bucky says with a quick shrug. Christ, if anyone ever wants to interrogate him all they have to do is get his sister involved, apparently. He feels like he’s fifteen years old again and she’s teasing him for having a crush on his history teacher. “I don’t know what he’s thinking,” he throws out, the words coming in a rush. He doesn’t want to talk about this, about the million and one ways he’s a mess right now. The way Steve talks about it, like the sniper mission he took was _wrong_ somehow. It makes him feel like he should be ashamed, but then he gets angry that Steve makes him feel that way. And, on top of that, the whole mess with Hawkeye that he _should_ be ashamed about, but he’s not, and maybe that makes him not want to look Steve in the eye.

“He doesn’t talk to _me_ about it anyway,” Bucky spits. “Why don’t you ask him? He likes talkin’ about me behind my back.”

“Huh,” Becca says. Bucky gives her the best big brother side eye he can manage. It doesn’t work.

“Huh what?”

“Huh nothin’,” she says, smiling smugger than should be allowed.

“Don’t look like nothing from where I’m sittin’,” he says.

“So if you don’t know what Steve’s worried about, that means there’s something else you think he might be worried about.”

Bucky clamps his mouth shut. Damned baby sisters and their cunning ways.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Becca waves her finger again, looking so much like their ma – not that Bucky would ever tell her that. “You don’t want me involved you don’t show up on my doorstep like a stray cat. Ma always loves it when you stay with her.”

Bucky winces, the familiar spasm of filial guilt passing over his face. He doesn’t see their ma often enough. Becca’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“Hey. You don’t have to talk to me. Don’t know why you wouldn’t want to, though; I’m all kinds of awesome.”

“Remember when we were kids and Dad used to watch those westerns every Sunday?” Bucky says. Becca rolls her eyes.

“Do I ever! He never let me change the channel. Drove me crazy. You used to love those things.”

“Yeah… kinda feels a bit like I’m livin’ in one. Only… I’m not sure who’s wearin’ the black hat anymore.” Becca hums. “I think maybe I’ve done somethin’ stupid, Becs.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she says. Bucky glares at her again, but she just sticks her tongue out.

“You’re an ass,” he says.

“What? No. I mean, sure, you’ve done stupid things, but you’re still here. You got past them. You’ll do what you need to do to get past this too.”

“This isn’t like streaking through prom, Becca.”

“Oh God!” Becca groans, dropping her head forward. “I’d forgotten about that! Why did you remind me about your pasty ass?” Then with another theatrical sigh, her face fades into seriousness.

“Look. Steve and you’ll sort your shit out, you always do.” She rubs his shoulder gently. “But whatever else you’re worried about, I can tell you this for certain.” The soothing hand squeezes slightly and he raises his eyes to look at her properly. “Your white hat is superglued to your stupid head. Might be a bit dirty around the brim, but you’re never getting rid of it. And I’d trust your judgement any day of the week. Remember Darren What’shisface?”

“Byers?” Bucky blinks at the sudden change of subject. An almost forgotten slice of the past coming back unexpectedly. “That scumbag? Yeah, I remember him, what about him?”

“You never liked him. Everyone else thought he was nice as pie, but you used to swear he was a dick.”

“He was a dick,” Bucky says, confused. “He put Steve in hospital.”

“Yeah,” Becca agrees, her mouth thinning with the memory of anger. “And you knew. So trust yourself.”

“That was a long time ago, Becca. A lot’s happened since then. I’m not exactly the same person.” He lifts his left hand and wriggles it at her. Without pausing, Becca reaches up her right hand and links her fingers through his metal ones, waggling them both.

“Jamie,” she says, calmly and quietly. “You’re still you. You know how I know?”

“Becca–“

“Because you’re still too stubborn to listen to me,” she smiles, bright and uncaring. “Now, if you’re going to be all maudlin and dumb, then I need more booze.” She stands up, tugging his hand with her for a minute before letting him sink back into the sofa. “I’ve got something horribly strong that I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

“No, Becca. Not tonight. I just…” Bucky protests. He’s not ready to be that vulnerable just yet. “Not tonight.”

Becca considers him for a second before nodding and returning back to the sofa.

“Fine, we can veg out and watch TV then. But I get to choose what we watch.”

“I’m the guest,” Bucky points out.

“And I’m the one who owns the TV. What’s the point in owning a TV if I don’t get to choose what I want?” she asks.

“Guess you’ll be needing this, then,” Bucky says innocently, picking up the remote control that’s been resting next to him. Becca lunges for it, but Bucky’s up and out of his seat, holding it above her head before she even gets close.

*

**Boscobel**

There’s nothing quite as fun as watching two SHIELD agents getting pulled over by airport security. Clint and Nat have front row seats to the whole thing.

The dogs sniff them out first, and tweedle dum and tweedle dumber go from uninterested to concerned to really worried in a few seconds. Clint takes a few photos of their facial expressions with his phone – for posterity.

Tweedle dum is getting to third base with the police sniffer dog, which is probably more action than he’s got in years. It’s beautiful. He’s trying to get away from the determined creature, while trying not to seem like he’s hiding something, a difficult line to tread. Tweedle dumber is trying to explain that they’re on the same side and reaching for an ID card that is no longer in her pocket. It is, in fact, in the cart of a janitor that Clint walked past ten minutes ago, on its way to join all the other garbage. He wonders how often a SHIELD agent can lose their ID before SHIELD refuses to give them another one.

He looks at Nat, to see if she’s enjoying the show as much as he is. She’s not even watching, just typing away at something on her laptop, her face drawn in concern.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” she replies, not looking up. Clint shrugs. She’s allowed her secrets. He opens up the bag of popcorn he’d bought specifically for this moment and goes back to watching the floor show, tossing the pieces into his mouth.

Tweedle dum is now a little purple in the face, having discovered that his ID is also gone, and telling the security guard to call someone. The security guard does not look like he wants to phone a friend. Tweedle dumber has made the mistake of saying something slightly patronising to the beefier security guard, or maybe it was something disparaging of the Jamaican legal process. Who knows, whatever it is, she’s being twisted around and bent over the security table as her hands are cuffed behind her.

Clint takes another picture.

The two agents are marched away past them and Clint hears the words ‘cavity search’ as they go.

Beautiful, just beautiful.

He contemplates which of the photographs he should send to Bucky and then remembers that he’s never speaking to _Agent Barnes_ again, because that way madness lies. His elation dips a bit and he sighs, dropping his phone back into his pocket. Nat’s still at whatever it is on her laptop and their flight’s delayed and there’s nothing to do.

He throws some more popcorn into his mouth and sighs. He swears that life used to be more fun than this.

*

**New York**

Someone opens the curtains, sending a shaft of light across Bucky’s face. He swears at them.

“No,” Becca’s voice says. “I’m not going to fuck off. You’re on my sofa. Either get up or learn how to sleep through it.”

Bucky sits up and glares at her, but Becca’s about as immune to his glares as Steve is. She just laughs and ruffles his hair in delight.

“You look like a grumpy puppy,” she tells him.

Anyone else in the world and he’d be pointing a gun at them, but family’s different. He chokes down his instinctive reaction and just redoubles his glare.

“You’re a brat,” Bucky tells her. His voice sounds like he’s been gargling razor blades.

“Yes. But I’m a brat who’s making you breakfast,” she points out. “And you shouldn’t have drunk so much if you didn’t want to deal with the consequences.

“Always wanted to be an only child,” Bucky lies, and she raises an eyebrow. She looks so much like their ma that Bucky knows he’s losing this argument, even if he doesn’t know what they’re arguing about.

There had been a time, just after he’d come back, when he was out of the hospital, but still stuck in his head, when Becca and all the rest had tiptoed around him so cautiously. That time has passed, and he wouldn’t have it back for all the world, but sometimes he does miss the quiet.

“Go and shower,” she tells him. “You’re stinking up my sofa.”

The shower might just be the best idea she’s ever had. Bucky turns it up as hot as it will go without scalding his skin and it melts away the last of the sleep that clings to him. Whatever Becca thinks, he wasn’t hung over, he just didn’t want to face today. He wasn’t that drunk last night, but he was drunk enough to loosen his tongue, all part of Becca’s clever plan as she made sure there was always a new beer at hand. He can remember last night clearly. He remembers Becca listening as he told her about Steve being a little shit and a heavily edited (for national security) version of another story, about a guy who’d kissed him and run away.

He groans, because she’s got enough ammunition for the next decade.

She makes him pancakes and Bucky avoids her gaze as she smirks at him.

“Shut up,” he says over the coffee.

“Not saying anything,” she tells him.

“You’re thinkin’ real loud then.”

“Just wanna meet whatever guy managed to get you this worked up,” she says. Bucky thinks about that for a minute, he thinks Becca would like Hawkeye. Apart from the bit where he kills people for a living. But Bucky sort of does that too, so maybe it’s still okay.

“Not worked up,” he says, finally meeting her eyes, to try and prove the point.

“You’re not this grumpy just because Steve was bein’ an idiot again,” she tells him. “Steve’s an idiot every day and twice on Sundays. You’ve already forgiven him, you’re just bein’ stubborn about it.

That’s true enough. Forgiveness is kind of a given where Steve’s concerned. Bucky knows that they’ll be back to normal again just as soon as they start speaking to each other, whenever that may be. He’s not sure if Steve’s not talking to him, or if Steve thinks that Bucky’s not talking to him. Either way, they’ve both been in New York for a few weeks now and they’ve barely spoken.

Bucky’s just waiting for an apology. Or he was. His anger’s pretty much gone now. He knows Steve was trying to help, he just went about it the wrong way, charging in bull-headed as per usual, not thinking about the consequences until he’s got the both of them knee deep in bullshit, as per usual. Bucky’s life would have been a good deal simpler if he’d just kept walking back when they were kids, and not waded in to help the little guy with the fight he couldn’t win. Of course, all he’d got for his trouble was a heated comment that Steve didn’t need his help, thank you very much. Ungrateful bastard.

Now he’s trying to fix things that don’t need fixing and trying to make up for guilt that isn’t even his. Becca’s a little different. Steve’s trying to erase what happened to him, but Becca’s more pragmatic. She’d looked at his arm the first time she’d seen him in the hospital, after everything, and just said ‘that looks like it’ll come in handy gettin’ the lid off the pickle jar.’

She’s read all the literature on PTSD, Bucky knows, but she doesn’t talk to him about it. She just deals with it. Deals with the fact that he’s angrier now, deals with the fact that she can always feel a knife when she hugs him.

Doesn’t mean she isn’t a brat, though.

“Talk to Steve,” she tells him as she adds a load of bacon and eggs on top of his half-eaten pancakes. “You miss him.”

“Don’t miss him,” Bucky lies. It’s not like he can’t cope without the moron. But he does find himself turning to say something to him only to see a space at his side, it's jarring every time.

“Well I don’t think you want to talk about your mystery guy to your baby sister,” she points out. Bucky takes a huge mouthful of bacon and egg so he doesn’t have to answer. He should never have told her about that stupid kiss that didn’t even mean anything anyway. “And you need to talk about it to someone.” Bucky looks at her and very deliberately puts another forkful of food into his mouth to demonstrate that he doesn’t need to talk to anyone about anything. “Fine. I get it, you’re in denial. I won’t push.”

He’s not in denial. That would mean he was denying something. He’s not denying anything. He’s acknowledging the fact that Hawkeye is a crazy, irritating son of a bitch and the kiss was just a mind game, like all his other mind games.

“He misses you,” Becca says. Bucky looks up sharply, because she hasn’t spoken to Hawkeye, she doesn’t even know who Hawkeye is.

He realises that she’s talking about Steve a second later and feels like a complete idiot. Luckily Becca doesn’t realise his confusion.

“Yes, I’m talking to him,” she says. “He thinks you’re angry he’s been smothering you.” Bucky rolls his eyes. Steve’s missing the point again. “Yes, he’s an idiot,” Becca agrees with a shrug before tasting her coffee. She makes a face and spoons a little more sugar in. Those sweet monstrosities she’s buying from her coffee shops are spoiling her. “But you’re both idiots. That’s why you get on so well. One of you has to get your head out of your ass long enough to fix this.”

“He started it,” Bucky grumbles.

“He usually does,” Becca tells him. “As I remember that’s what you always used to say when the pair of you got into fights when you were kids as well.”

“Was true then, an’all,” Bucky tells her, shifting uncomfortably.

“But it was always you who finished them.”

“Only ‘cause Steve was too small to do it himself back then. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but that’s not really a problem for him now.”

“Don’t tell me you’re feelin’ sorry for yourself because you think now Steve’s not little anymore he doesn’t need you?” She put her mug down and throws up her hands in exasperation, before grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. It’s not strong enough to actually move him, but Bucky humours her. “He’s up to his neck in something. He won’t tell me what it is, but he needs you, Jamie.”

“He needs my help, he can ask for it.”

“When has Steve Rogers ever asked for help with anything?” Bucky gives her a flat glare.

“OK. Then I guess I’m going to have to ask about this boy you kissed…” Becca says, grinning. “Was he pretty? Did your heart skip a beat? Is he your boooooyfriend?”

“He kissed me, and we are not thirteen years old.”

“Ha! You like him!” She crows. “You’re blushing. I need a picture of this.” She reaches for her phone and Bucky pulls it out of her reach, getting to his feet. He does not have to listen to this.

“Aw… I was only joking… Come back!”

“I’m goin’ for a walk,” he says, dropping her phone on top of the bookcase by the door and grabbing his jacket.

“Bucky I didn’t mean to make you run off. I’ll be-“ He slams the door behind him, effectively cutting off whatever promise she was about to make. He loves his sister, he really does, and sleeping on her sofa is better than staying in his tiny apartment in DC with nothing to do, even if it does sometimes mean waking up with a cat on his head. But he’ beginning to remember why he spent half of his childhood trying to lock her in the closet. Until she worked out how to pick the lock.

*

**A Train in Eastern Europe**

The SHIELD agents are far behind them, chasing their tails in Greece, and Clint boards the train, his hands stuck in the pocket of his hoodie.

It’s one of the ones with compartments, and he moves along it slowly, nodding at people who make eye contact and trying to appear like any other passenger on their way across Europe.

This is another one of Nat’s little jobs, she’s been adding more and more of them recently and Clint trusts her, really he does, but he doesn’t know what she’s doing. She always keeps things from him, but this feels more personal. Maybe he’s reading too much into it. He sighs, swaying with the movement of the train as it jolts slightly. He’s probably reading too much into it, but she’s been doing research, disappearing off to places, like she’s running a long op, and she’s not even hiding it from him well. She’s making a point by letting him know he’s out of the loop. Like she’s waiting for him to ask so she can tell him he’s not needed. Clint doesn’t ask, she doesn’t tell. He just tries to be as good as he can, so she can’t complain.

Sooner or later she’s going to run, dissolve into the night air and leave him alone again, to deal with all this shit. It’s always been a matter of time, he supposes, with them. Who did he think they were kidding, the two of them against the world. The world’s a lot bigger than he thought.

He gets to the compartment and opens it up.

“Honey, I’m back,” Clint says cheerfully, kicking the door shut. “Did you miss me?” Nat’s arm is around the mark’s neck and his face is turning purple. She looks up and rolls her eyes. He lets her finish what she’s doing, sitting down opposite and leaning back. The mark kicks out once, twice, and slumps. She moves, letting him drop back into place.

Nat’s going through the mark’s pockets. He’s slumped in his seat, dead as a doornail.

 “Stop being so insecure,” she tells him. “And help me search him. I need his phone.”

“So demanding,” Clint tells her, but he starts searching pockets.

They find the phone and Nat seizes it with triumph before slipping it into her bag, and they settle down in their seats, leaving the dead man propped against the window, face in shadow. It’s not like he’s going to complain.

“Get what you need?” Clint asks.

“He was very helpful,” she says, “when I asked nicely. Did you get the cash?”

Clint hefts the rucksack he’s been carrying.

“Non-sequential notes, all with that freshly laundered smell,” he tells her.

“Have you talked to Barnes?” she asks, striking suddenly when he least expects it, like she always does. He doesn’t have enough warning to suppress his wince. “I still think you should.”

“We got the guy suspended, Nat,” Clint points out. “And… I don’t know why you’re pushing this.”

“Having a SHIELD agent on our side can’t possibly hurt,” she says with a shrug.

“You want me to use my dick to convince him to become a double agent?” Clint asks. He’s confident about his abilities, but he’s not sure he’s that good.

“I just think that staying on good terms with him might be in our favour,” she says.

“Pretty sure I burned that bridge already,” Clint tells her.

“You never know unless you try,” she tells him.

It’s at that point that the ticket collector comes in. Nat and Clint had over their tickets easily and he looks at the mark, still slumped in his seat, his hat over his face.

“He’s been asleep since before we got here,” Nat tells him “Out like a light.” The ticket guy shrugs and nods, unwilling to wake the guy up. He checks their tickets, punches holes in them both and hands them back, before looking at the dead guy again and shaking his head.

“Have a nice journey,” he tells them.

“Thank you,” Clint says with a bright smile. “We will.”

*

**New York**

Bucky’s been doing well at not thinking about the kiss. If ‘kiss’ it can really be considered. It was more of a lip first head-butt, really. If Bucky were scoring it, then he couldn’t really give high marks for execution. But lips had touched lips. So, even if it was clumsy and more like a physical assault than an expression of affection, it’s probably covered by the word kiss.

And Bucky has consciously not been thinking about it. He’s really good at that during the day.

Well… he’s better at it during the day, but as soon as he lies down to sleep it comes storming back in full colour.

It’s been nights of action replays and it’s pissing him off. What’s pissing him off the most is Hawkeye’s stupid, fucking beautiful face is seared into his brain. And there’s a part of him that’s excited because he _knows what Hawkeye looks like_.

There’s no chance anymore of them walking past each other in the street, Bucky oblivious. Now, Bucky would know. Now, if he gets a text, he’s going to picture that cocky fucking grin, which Bucky could trace the exact curve of – has imagined doing just that with his fingertips and with his tongue. He knows that Hawkeye has blue eyes that crinkle round the edges and dirty blond hair that sticks up like a scrubbing brush. He knows that Hawkeye cuts himself while shaving. He knows that Hawkeye smells like sweat, cheap soap and gunpowder – just a little bit. He knows that Hawkeye’s lips are chapped and his ass is fucking gorgeous in combat trousers. He knows the look in Hawkeye’s eyes when he aims an arrow.

Bucky knows that he’s screwed. He’s withheld information from SHIELD. He let Hawkeye go. He wanted to kiss him back.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He wants to punch Hawkeye in his shit-eating grin and he wants to kiss that grin right off his face.

He wants.

It’s a weird realisation, and one that’s probably been coming for a long time. He _wants_. He, Bucky Barnes, actually wants something for himself. Full on want. No holds barred.

And just his luck that it’s something he can’t have, not if he wants to keep everything else in his life. That’s not an option.

Also just his luck that Steve was right all along. Bucky’s not sure when his interest in Hawkeye went from bruised pride to respect to lust, but Steve had seen him coming a mile off.

Fuck Steve and fuck Hawkeye. He needs some fucking sleep.

*****

**Milan**

Natasha is gone. Not for good, she said. She kissed Clint’s cheek at Malpensa Airport and told him she’d be back in a couple of weeks and to stay out of trouble. Then she disappeared into the crowd. Clint couldn’t have followed her if he wanted to. When Nat wants to go, she’s gone.

It’s odd, not knowing where she is. Clint has not managed to stay out of trouble. Or, more accurately, he has gone to places where trouble normally lurks and waited for it to ambush him.

He’s won three hundred euros getting drunken idiots to bet against him getting bottle tops into glasses, and another two hundred on darts. He’s also started six bar fights he did not stick around to see through – his memories of Italy’s jail cells are not so fond that he’d like a repeat stay.

He’s also managed to get two sloppy back alley blow jobs, which made him screw his eyes shut and ball his hands into fists, and not really in the good way. After each one he’d gone back to the hotel and run the shower to steaming hot and trying to dissolve into a puddle of guilt and self-loathing. Shit, he is not good when he’s left on his own. Why the fuck is he so worked up over a guy he doesn’t even know?

Except he does know him. As much as Barnes and Rogers were following him and Nat, Clint and Nat were watching them right back. He’s seen the guy laugh and cry and punch walls and trees in frustration.

But it was never going anywhere. He knew it wasn’t going anywhere, and he’s an adult. He can accept that. He’s not about to stalk Bucky, not for non-professional reasons, anyway. The guy almost certainly hates his guts. He definitely hasn’t used the phone Nat gave him since California.

Not that Clint’s thinking about that. He’s trying not to think about anything.

Parker and Rodriguez, their newest SHIELD groupies, are not an issue. They’re currently in Venezuela and Clint, in a fit of pettiness, has contacted an acquaintance in the area and suggested that he might like to steal a certain vehicle. If that happens to leave the poor agents stranded in the middle of nowhere, it’s no skin off Clint’s nose.

Clint resolutely thinks of that instead. He does not think about where Nat is. Nor about whether she’s really coming back. He doesn’t think about Barnes and definitely not about his broken fucking heart.

He catches the eye of a guy at the other end of the bar who’s been eyeing him up all night. Bar guy looks like a safe bet, and maybe this time Clint won’t have to bite back the wrong name or find himself wanting hair that’s just a shade darker to run his hands through.

Of course, it turns out that bar guy has a boyfriend who Clint manages to insult. Clint is very good at insulting people. It’s pretty much his super power. That starts bar fight number seven and Clint slips out the door when no one’s looking.

The fresh air hits him like a hammer upside the head, making everything fuzzy and ugly feeling. What had been a pleasant buzz turns into molasses in his brain.

His phone chirps in his pocket and Clint’s heart jerks at the sound. His hand doesn’t shake as he pulls his phone out and checks the screen.

It’s Natasha’s name he sees, making his stomach clench uncomfortably. He’s not sure if that’s better or worse than Barnes.

‘ _Check in._ ’ she says. Clint rolls his eyes, but he’s not sure when they stop moving because the world keeps going.

 _‘Still alive. Not in prison. No blood. Status?_ ’

It takes her a minute to respond.

 _‘Everything’s proceeding according to plan. Should be with you in a few days._ ’

‘ _Need some help?’_ Clint asks, suddenly desperate to do something.

 _‘Not this time_ ,’ she replies.

 _‘Be safe,_ ’ he sends back because he’s a sappy drunk and because the only other thing he can think of to text is: _Why? What are you doing? Why won’t you tell me?_ But that’s too needy for them. His friendship with Nat has always been easy and she deserves her secrets.

 _‘You too,_ ’ she replies. And that’s that. But he doesn’t put his phone away again. He’s just drunk enough to find Barnes’ name in his contacts under ‘Tall, Dark & Deadly’ and to hover his thumb over it.

If the kiss was a stupid idea, then this is stupider. You don’t run back onto the bridge when you’ve already set it on fire.

He doesn’t stop his fingers from tapping out the message. No teenage girl shit. Don’t mention the kiss, don’t flirt, don’t make the guy more uncomfortable, because _fuck’s sake_ Bucky didn’t even kiss back. Just keep it simple, Barton. A statement of fact, an apology that needs to be given, even if it doesn’t want to be heard.

 _‘Sorry I got you suspended._ ’

He can’t decide whether to send it. On one hand, it’s like putting his own head in the noose, on the other, he feels like the apology is necessary.

Clint’s indecision is interrupted by the sounds of thumping and a pained whine. He saves the decision and the message for later and goes to look for trouble.

*

**New York**

Bucky wakes up to a text message on his _other_ phone.

 _Sorry I got you suspended_.

There are no emojis, no additional messages, just those words sent at one thirty in the morning, New York time. He has no idea what time that is wherever Hawkeye is. Maybe it’s the middle of the night too, maybe it’s the middle of the day. He could be literally anywhere in the world.

The thought makes him feel very empty all of a sudden. And in the darkness he can sort of admit that he feels like he’s missing the guy. Which is stupid, because he’s only met him the once and they’ve been enemies the whole time. But the empty feeling feels a bit like the one he feels when he thinks about calling Steve.

He needs to get his head on straight.

Becca’s living room is becoming less her living room and more Bucky’s room. His clothes are in the chest of drawers and the cushions are starting to smell like him. He’s in a constant battle for territory with her cat, though. McCavity (courtesy of Becca’s love of Broadway) lives up to his name and is a cunning little fur ball, hiding and sneaking out in the middle of the night to jump on Bucky’s face. Bucky had won last night though and found the black and white nightmare cat before he’d gone to sleep, hustled him out the door into the kitchen and shut it firmly behind him.

Bucky rolls over and falls back to sleep.

It’s no surprise that his dreams take a more erotic turn. He dreams about the night of the gala again, only this time, there are no security men running in, and no Black Widow driving the getaway vehicle. No interruptions.

Just the two of them and a lot of convenient surfaces.

He wakes up hard for the umpteenth time, his hips moving into the cushions and his breathing heavy, the imagined image of Hawkeye still on the backs of his eyelid when he closes his eyes. But there’s no way he’s beating himself off on his sister’s sofa.

So maybe he misses the guy. And maybe he has a slight crush.

Fucking Hawkeye.

Well… yeah.

*

When Bucky leaves in the morning, for a run to clear his head, he almost runs into a woman coming the other way. He grunts at her in lieu of an apology and keeps walking.

He’s taken to going out walking every day, never the same way twice. It’s partially his paranoia that keeps him varying the route, partially because he never has anywhere specific to go. He jogs. Keeping in shape is more difficult away from the SHIELD gym and with his ma’s cooking twice a week. She still thinks he’s too skinny, even these days. There’s only one constant in his routine and that’s where he stops to buy coffee on his way back for him and Becca.

Life goes on around him, and it’s comforting and familiar. Some things have changed since he was a kid – a lot of things actually – but the people are still pretty much the same. He overhears snatches of conversations. People talking about stupid things like the weather and the traffic. Everything’s so normal.

He rolls back into the apartment in the mid-afternoon, a coffee in each hand, something with far too much sugar for Becca and something with far too much caffeine for him. It had started raining about ten minutes ago, and not a polite little shower. He’s half-soaked, his hair sticking in his eyes and to his face. Becca might have a point about him getting a haircut, to be honest, it’s getting impractical.

He juggles the cups to turn his key in the lock and swings open the door, expecting to find Becca curled up with a book or something. He’s definitely not expecting to see two glasses of wine on the coffee table and a strange red head sitting with her feet tucked up on the sofa, listening to Becca talk with a smile on her face. He thinks it’s the same woman he bumped into on the stairs when he walked out that morning. She definitely doesn’t live in the building, so she’s been here a while.

There’s something in the way she holds herself that makes him tense. She’s coiled like a cobra and when both women turn to look at him, there’s an assessment in her eyes that Bucky knows from his own.

“Becca,” he says. She looks confused at the steady tension in his voice. “Can you come over here?”

“What’s up?” she asks, standing up.

“I have no intention of hurting her,” the woman says. Bucky starts at her voice, because he recognises it. Becca’s looking back in surprise, probably because the woman’s voice is suddenly as calm and deadly as the beach before a tsunami.

“Natasha?” Becca asks.

“Get behind me,” Bucky says. He sets the coffee down on the side and pulls his gun. It isn’t entirely legal, but he’s not that bothered about legalities these days. Becca doesn’t question it and steps behind him.

The Black Widow holds up her hands in surrender, but Bucky’s not an idiot. She could still kill them both if she wants to. Well, she could try. She might be world-famous, but Bucky’s real good at killing things.

“She said she was a friend of yours,” Becca says.

“We’ve never officially been introduced,” Bucky says.

“But we have worked together,” _Natasha_ says. “Either shoot me or put the gun down, James.” He doesn’t let her use of his name throw him. He knows she knows about him.

“Why are you here, Natasha?” he says, using the name she’s given. He wonders if it’s real, if any of her is real. She pulls on a new personality like the rest of the world changes their clothes. Maybe she doesn’t even have a name, just a name that she uses.

“To speak to you.”

“Why not use the phone?” he asks.

“I needed to see your face.” She shrugs. “It’s easier to read people in person. You know that.” He does. Not that seeing her in person is giving anything away. He has the distinct feeling that she never shows anyone anything that isn’t intentional. But she’s showing her face – her real face from what he can tell. No one’s ever seen her face and known about it. But if she’d wanted Becca dead, she’d be dead already. If she wanted to use her as a hostage, she wouldn’t have let her walk over to Bucky.

“Becca, you got anywhere else that you could be right now?” He turns to see his sister wielding a baseball bat. “Jesus, Becca! Where’d you get that?”

“I coach little league,” she says, as though it’s obvious. Come to think of it, that’s probably where she goes on Monday nights. Bucky’d just assumed it was work related. “And like hell I’m leaving you here alone.”

“Becca, I’ll be fine.”

“You’re pointing a gun at her. That’s not fine.” She has a point and Bucky runs his hand through his wet hair. He considers it for a second.

“I’ll be better if I don’t have to worry about your ass. Go to one of the other apartments. Don’t leave the building. Steer clear of anyone you don’t know.” She purses her lips, but nods and heads for the door, the bat still clutched in her had. She turns to give the Widow a final glare before she closes the door.

“You’re not worried my partner’s lying in wait outside?” the Widow asks.

“No,” Bucky says. He dismisses the thought so quickly it’s worrying. He doesn’t even contemplate the idea that Hawkeye might hurt Becca. “If you wanted her dead, she’d be dead.” He says, choosing not to analyse the other reasons. “And… you don’t kill unless you have to. You’ve got to know I’m not on your case anymore.”

“We heard a rumour, weren’t sure how true it was.”

“It’s true,” Bucky says. “Suspended. Where is your better half anyway?” he asks. She arches an eyebrow at him and grins like he’s just given away all his secrets.

“Usually people say that the other way round,” she says.

“Yeah. I think of the two of you, you’re definitely the scarier one,” he tells her. Her smile shifts a bit, becomes pleased, like she doesn’t already know that.

“You’re just saying that because he kissed you,” says Natasha, still smirking. “But you’re right. Hawkeye’s the nice one.”

“He kills people for a living.”

“He kills bad people for a living. How’s that any worse than what you do, James?” she asks. This is getting out of control.

“If you’re here for information, you’re wasting your time.”

“If I wanted information about SHIELD I’d walk in the front door. I’m not here for information – at least not the kind of information you think I’m here for,” she props her legs up on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles and takes a sip of her wine, her smile softens into something pleasant, but unconcerned. “Sit down, James. I’m just here to chat.”

He sits on the arm of the nearest chair. She seems disappointed by his choice.

“So if you don’t want to talk about SHIELD, what do you want to talk about?” he asks.

“I’m here to talk about Hawkeye, actually.” A million things run through his head. The last time she came out of the shadows wasn’t exactly a party. He lowers his gun fully.

“Why?” he asks. “Has something…?” He wonders if SHIELD have somehow managed to get their hands on him. He would have thought he’d have heard about it, but he doesn’t even know who got put on the mission.

“Interesting,” the Widow says, rounding out the word with meaning. Bucky snaps out of his half-formed plan to break into SHIELD HQ and remembers which side he’s on.

“What’s interesting?” he asks. She just shakes her head, taking another sip of wine. “Look, what about Hawkeye?”

“He’s moping again,” she says. “He thinks you hate him because he got you suspended.” She doesn’t let Bucky answer that strange pronouncement. “He’s an idiot,” she tells him. “But he’s a good person.”

“He’s an assassin,” Bucky points out again. “Pretty sure that’s not a ringing endorsement of his moral character.”

“Everything’s relative. And I hardly think the Winter Soldier is one to talk, do you?”

Something suddenly hits him, an idea so ridiculous that it can’t possibly be true, but at the same time, it’s the only thing that explains everything here.

“And you’re here to do what, exactly? Warn me off your friend?” He pauses, looking at her, but she’s picked up one of Becca’s magazines and is flicking through it, pretending to pay him no attention. “How do you even have friends? I’ve read about what they did to you. You’re not the only one who can do research. What did he do to win your loyalty?”

“Friend, singular,” she says, closing the magazine with a slap of glossy pages. “And I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

Shit, he’s right, she’s here to give him the shovel talk. She’s actually worried about this, about Bucky and Hawkeye, and he’s only met the guy the one time. Maybe she does this to everyone he kisses. Maybe she just does this if they’re SHIELD agents. Maybe this is all part of some elaborate plot.

“I think you came to my sister’s apartment and talked to my sister. I think we’re a little past boundaries. You tell me you’re here to talk about Hawkeye. Talk about him then.” Her face shutters down and Bucky’s sure he’s about two seconds away from having to explain to Becca why her apartment’s been trashed.

“I owe him a debt.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky tells her, crossing his arms. “You don’t walk into enemy territory when you don’t have to for a debt.”

She stares at him, her eyes hard. There’s something there, something that she’s weighing up in him, Bucky can see it, he has no idea what it is, no idea if he’s going to get a passing grade or if he’ll fail. He has a sense that if he fails he’s dead. Or as dead as she can make him.

“He gave me a choice,” she says, after a moment, looking away.

“A choice between what?” Bucky asks.

“It doesn’t matter what,” she says. Her voice sounds far away for a moment. “He gave me a choice. That’s it. That’s the story.” She looks back at Bucky and she’s not hiding behind a persona, or if she is, it’s one that runs deep. Her eyes are clear, green and intent.

“So this _is_ the ‘if you hurt him, I’ll kill you talk’?” Bucky asks in disbelief. “Little premature – and unlikely. He kissed me, once. That’s not exactly a declaration of undying love. And we’re on different sides.”

“Depends where you’re standing,” she tells him. “But no. This isn’t that talk. You already know that, why would I warn you?”

“So I wouldn’t hurt him?”

“And then the only reason you don’t hurt him is to save your own life? I mean, I’m not exactly an expert on healthy relationships, but that doesn’t sound like a good basis for one.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “But if this isn’t that conversation, what conversation is it?”

“A different one,” she tells him, standing up. “And I think I have everything I need.”

“Everything you need for what?” he asks. She smiles and walks to the door, patting his cheek as she goes.

“That’s not important anymore,” she tells him. “I can see myself out.” She opens the door. “By the way. You should watch your back. These streets aren’t safe for anyone these days. Even the Winter Soldier. It was nice meeting you, James.”

“The feeling’s not entirely mutual, Natasha. If that’s your name.”

“It’s the closest thing I have,” she says with a shrug. “Thank your sister for the wine.” Then she’s gone, with a click of high heels and a swish of red hair.

Bucky searches the whole apartment from top to bottom, but finds nothing. Becca reappears with her baseball bat aloft, it droops when she sees him sitting alone, frowning into the middle distance.

“Are you gonna tell me what that was about?” she asks. “Do I need to get the locks changed?”

“Wouldn’t do much good,” Bucky says. “That was work. It won’t happen again.”

“Do I need to move?” she asks then.

“No, I think… I don’t think she wants to hurt either of us.”

“So she’s a good guy?” Becca asks. She props the baseball bat up against the wall again and heads for the sofa to flop down on it.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“And you know her from work – remind me what it is you and Steve do again?”

“Security consultants,” Bucky says with an easy grin. They both know it’s a lie.

“Right. Well tell your security consultant boss to try to keep your contractors from turning up unannounced,” she says. “You’ve already given me enough heart attacks in this lifetime.”

*

**Undisclosed location**

“I leave you alone for a week and you end up like this,” Nat says, walking through the door as though she’s only been gone two minutes. Clint looks up from stitching up the holes the barbed wire gouged into his leg and glares at her. She ignores it. “Let me.”

He doesn’t know how she worked out where he’d gone. He doesn’t know how she knew which safe house to come to. She always knows where he is. Clint’s used to that. He could be stubborn and continue stitching his leg himself, but he sighs. He hands her the disinfectant and the needle gratefully.

“Where’ve you been then?” he asks.

“Prep work,” she tells him. “We’ve got a big job coming. I needed to lay down the groundwork.”

“Big job?” he asks. He hasn’t heard of anything.

“It’s connected to the information we got off the computer in Napa,” she tells him.

“I thought we did that for some property tycoon,” Clint says, wincing as she starts sewing. “We definitely got paid. I’ve seen the bank account.”

“We did. But I also got something else.”

“You’re being pretty secretive lately,” he tells her and something must come through in his voice because she looks up and holds his gaze.

“I need you to trust me,” she says. Clint’s tempted to say no, because he’s sick of being left in the dark. “I’m working something out.” Clint holds her gaze and then nods. He’s got to trust her, who else has he got? These days he can’t even trust himself half the time. She smiles and nods. “I swear, it’ll all make sense soon.”

“Fine,” he says. “But for future reference, I prefer to be in the loop.”

“Noted,” she tells him. “Now tell me how you managed to fall off a building and into barbed wire.”

He winces, but begins the story, which starts, as many stories do, with a dog.

*

**New York**

Steve looks half asleep when he answers the door. His eyes are too bright and sunk into his head. His face looks like it used to when he got pneumonia back when they were young – haggard – albeit a foot or so higher up.

“Jesus, Rogers. Have you left this room in the last week?” Bucky asks. Steve just blinks at him.

“Buck? Are you talkin’ to me now?” Steve says, sounding just a little petulant.

“Nah, I’m just a very pretty figment of your imagination.”

“Please, I’m not the one hallucinatin’ if you think you’re pretty.” Good, Steve’s still making jokes, that’s a good sign.

“Fuck you, Stevie. Compared to you right now I’m Helen of fucking Troy.”

“Your face wouldn’t launch a dinghy, let alone an armada,” Steve says.

“You gonna let me in, or are you just gonna insult me some more?” Bucky asks. “The way you’ve been leaving me messages I was expectin’ an invite to prom.”

Steve back over his own shoulder at something Bucky can’t see, then hesitates.

“Stevie?” Bucky’s officially getting worried now. “Look. I’m not mad anymore. You’ve apologised enough.”

“OK,” Steve says after another long moment. Then he heaves a breath and steps aside. “Come in.”

Buck squeezes past him, because even with Steve trying to keep out of the way the sheer bulk of him doesn’t leave much room in a doorway for normal people, and Steve’s still not quite used to being built like a wall.

Steve’s apartment is strewn with papers. He’s got his laptop open on what looks like the SHIELD database – which technically he shouldn’t have access to, seeing as he’s just as suspended as Bucky is.

“What the fuck is this?” Bucky asks.

Steve looks around them and sighs.

“This is what Fury asked me to do.”

Bucky takes a moment to reassess.

“We’re suspended, remember?”

“I think that was part of it,” Steve says. “He wanted someone to look into things from outside the Triskelion.”

“And you didn’t tell me because…?” Bucky looks at Steve and the slope of his shoulders, the lack of eye contact and the faint blush of shame over his face. “You didn’t trust me.”

“No!” Steve says quickly. “I trust you. I do. It’s not that I didn’t trust you. You know I trust you with my life. But in California…”

“What about California?” Bucky asks, his voice barely more than a grunt. There is pain, he can acknowledge that. It’s hard to accept the fact that Steve’s been doing all this without him, and maybe that’s because he and Bucky were fighting, but maybe it’s a trust thing. Why should Steve trust him, after all? He let Hawkeye get away and he doesn’t even regret it.

“You said,” Steve’s saying. “The timelines didn’t match up.” Steve finally meets Bucky’s eyes with determination. “Just like those cases I was looking at before.” It takes Bucky a moment to place the reference, but then he remembers the grunt work Steve had been looking at after Mumbai. The cases that Hill had given him to keep him busy. The cases where Steve had found things that he thought were odd.

“I trust you, Buck. But I remember what you were like when we found you. Your memory was like Swiss Cheese and they messed with your head. I didn’t know…  I thought maybe–”

“You thought Hydra still had their fingers in my brain,” Bucky summarises. He moves aside a stack of paper so he can sit on Steve’s sofa.

“I’m sorry, Buck.”

“Don’t be,” Bucky says immediately, waving Steve’s apologies off. “I can see why you’d be worried. I get it. I know you’ve got no reason to believe me, but I remember everything that happened in Napa.” _In vivid detail_ his mind adds. “There was no Hydra there, just me.” Steve looks pained. “I let him go, Steve. Shit. _I_ let him go. Is that worse? I was myself when I did it.”

“No… no… that’s not–” Steve frowns and sits down next to him, papers rustling. “What I’ve found here, it’s bigger than that… I… I get the Hawkeye thing. I mean, I don’t get it,” he makes a face, earnest and confused at the same time, and Bucky can’t quite keep the chuckle from sounding, and he leans his shoulder to bump Steve’s. “But I’m not sure that Hawkeye and Black Widow are the bad guys anymore.”

“They kill people,” Bucky says, slowly, sounding out this new idea of Steve’s. But his mind’s still working on ‘ _it’s bigger than that_ ’. What’s bigger than that? What has Steve found? What has him holed up in his apartment like a conspiracy theorist?

“So does SHIELD,” Steve says and Bucky can feel the words ‘so do you’ hovering between them.

“Why are you sure I’m not still under Hydra’s thumb?” Bucky asks, instead of bringing up the elephant in the room.

“I talked to some people,” Steve says. “About Hydra, about what happened to you. And I… looked at your files. At all the cases you’ve worked.”

“You investigated me,” Bucky says. Steve looks pained, like he’s expecting Bucky to get angry. But Bucky’s not mad. He understands where Steve was coming from. “Huh. Maybe you are cut out to be a spy. What did you find?” Bucky feels like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff. He doesn’t remember anything that Steve could have found, but that’s the point, isn’t it? If Hydra had laid some deep commands in him, made him their sleeper agent, would he even know?

“That’s the thing. I didn’t find anything like _that_ –” Bucky heaves a sigh of relief. “But I did find some other stuff.”

“What other stuff?” Bucky asks.

“You remember Dubai?” Bucky just looks at him. “Stupid question. I mean, you remember the guy who didn’t show.”

“The guy we were after,” Bucky agrees. He’s not sure what Steve’s getting at, but he trusts there’s a point.

“There’s a car.” Steve fishes around the papers on the floor, before pulling one up. “Here.”

It is indeed a picture of a car.

“Looks a little out of your price range,” Bucky says.

“That picture was taken fifteen minutes out from the spa where the meeting took place,” Steve says. “Whoever hired it hid their tracks well, I haven’t been able to trace them yet, but the car was heading to the spa.”

“OK, I bet a lot of high end cars go to that spa,” Bucky says.

“But it didn’t,” Steve says. “It turns around and heads back the way it came. The timestamps on the camera put it before Hawkeye took out his mark, before the meeting had even started, but _after_ we received the call from SHIELD.”

Bucky considers this.

“It’s possible that it was just someone who got called away,” he says.

“Possible.”

“What did the investigation turn up?” Bucky asks.

“It wasn’t followed up on,” Steve says. “Wasn’t even mentioned in anyone’s reports.” Bucky frowns, because that isn’t right. If SHIELD was that hot on the guy, then they’d have chased that car down.

“We weren’t the only people who knew that meeting was blown,” Bucky says, his mind racing. There are perfectly innocent explanations, but it’s fishy. “You think someone at SHIELD warned whoever it was?”

“I don’t have any proof. I don’t have any proof about any of it,” Steve says, waving his hand at the floor. “I’ve found dozens of things like this, little inconsistencies, people who know things that they shouldn’t know. Evidence that’s been buried under other data, never anything big, but put it together and it looks… worrying.” Bucky looks at the piles of paper, and feels worried. A mole in SHIELD working for who the hell knows. It’s enough to make his blood run cold.

“We could get out,” Bucky says. “We’re already suspended. We could make it permanent.” But even as he says the words, he knows Steve’s not going to go for it. Steve’s already shaking his head, looking more than a bit frantic.

“If this is more than a coincidence, then we have to find who it is. If we leave this then it could be dangerous. People could die, Buck.” Steve looks so tired, bags under his eyes, stubble almost long enough to be called a beard. He looks at Bucky with an expression that’s already decided. “You should get out, though. You’ve already been through enough. And if this is Hydra…”

“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky says. “Someone needs to watch your idiot back. We’ll work it out.”

The relief on Steve’s face is almost painful to see.

 “You’re dead on your feet. Get some sleep. This lot ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Bucky says, but Steve looks unsure. “You’re no use like this. Sleep.”

 “I need to-”

“Get some sleep,” Bucky tells him. “Maybe I’ll take a look, a fresh pair of eyes, huh?”

“Sure…” Steve yawns, though Bucky sees him try to hold it back, he can’t manage it.

“Seriously, Steve, sleep. I’ll look over this stuff.” Steve nods and Bucky pushes him to the bed, where he sits, still unsure. “Trust me, punk.”

“OK.” Steve yawns and stretches out before lying down. He’s snoring almost as soon as his head touches the pillow.

Bucky looks down at the mess of Steve’s conspiracy theory and sighs. Still cleaning up Steve Rogers’ messes. It’s the story of his fucking life.

*

**Geneva**

“Nat,” Clint says, looking at the message he’s just been sent. One of their contacts in the states is filling him on some interesting gossip.

She looks up from her salad, raising an eyebrow.

“What does Suzie have to say?” she asks. Clint doesn’t even bother wondering how she knows who’s contacted him anymore. She’s probably got alerts set up on his phone or something.

“Who’s the Winter Soldier?” he asks, before stuffing his sandwich into his face. Natasha freezes.

“I don’t like that face,” he says around the bite of sandwich. “Why are you making that face? Nat? Do I need to kill someone?”

“What did Suzie say about the Winter Soldier?” Natasha asks. Clint blinks and chews thoughtfully, waiting until he’s swallowed his mouthful before he answers. She’s impatient, that’s weird. Natasha never shows impatience.

“That he’s currently an easy target and our favourite international arms dealing ring are looking to pick him up and sell him to the highest bidder in the next few days. Is he even a he? Is he even a person? Is there some sort of big scary weapon out there called the Winter Soldier that I don’t know about?”

“No, you know about him,” she says, standing up and picking up her coat, leaving a hefty amount of Swiss franks behind. “You know him.”

“I know him?” Clint asks. “I think I would remember if I’d ever met someone called _the Winter Soldier_. It’s not really a name you forget.”

“Get up. We’re leaving,” Natasha says. Clint looks at the remains of his sandwich. He’s only had three bites and it’s a beautiful sandwich. “Clint.” Her voice is low and dangerous, and he knows no is not an option, so he stands up, but he picks up his sandwich as well. It’s too good to leave. He can eat and walk.

“Who is he? And where are we even going? Nat? Is this really that bad?” he asks, trotting to keep up as she strides away, stuffing more sandwich into his mouth.

“We’re going to New York. And you have definitely met him,” she says. “Although you tend to refer to him as Bucky.”

The sandwich gets stuck in his throat as Clint freezes. He chokes and splutters.

“Bucky? They’re after Bucky?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“We need to-“

“I’ve booked us on the next flight to New York,” Natasha says. “Thank me if we get there in time.”

Clint grabs her arm.

“What’s going on, Nat?” he asks, without slowing down. “You’ve been off doing your own thing and I haven’t asked, because I get it – you’ve got your life, I’ve got mine. But you’re up to something and now this. You can’t leave me in the dark anymore. I need to know. If Bucky’s involved… I’m not going to let this hurt him.” Nat looks at him and nods.

“He’s not going to get hurt if we get to New York in time.”

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” Clint asks. He’s fed up of Natasha keeping him in the dark.

“You’re in love with him,” she says. Clint nods, a little roughly. “He’s in love with you,” she adds, which makes Clint stare in disbelief. “You’re both moping. It’s infuriating.”

“Nat…”

“The Winter Soldier is who he used to be,” she says. “I’ll explain on the plane.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

 


	9. New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bad guys come for the Winter Soldier, but they aren't expecting him to have backup. In the aftermath, Clint and Bucky decide to make the most of what they have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, fair warning for people who don't enjoy reading smut - this chapter is where the smut is. It's not particularly graphic, but if you want to avoid it, skip down from where Bucky calls Clint impossible (for the first time), and do a ctrl+f for "Bucky wakes,", which will take you to the next scene.
> 
> To see a summary of the "plot" relevant points* that happen during the smut (because neither of them will stop talking), see the notes at the end of this chapter.
> 
> *relevant to the WinterHawk plot, not to any actual bad guy plot.

Bucky needs to walk, needs to clear his head with some of the not-so-fresh Brooklyn air. Steve’s calmed down some since Bucky joined his crusade, but he’s still full throttle and Bucky’s stuck between wanting to help him and feeling like he needs to climb out of his skin. He feels like there are eyes watching him constantly. He keeps seeing dead people out of the corner of his eye. But he’s holding it together. He’s with Steve all the way, and they’re going to hunt down whatever’s rotten in SHIELD and they’re going to deal with it.

Becca’s worried, though, she hasn’t asked since Steve told her it was classified, but she’s giving him sidelong looks and she made his favourite dinner two nights ago without even arguing about whose turn it was to cook. She’s even got ma off his back, so she must be really concerned.

Maybe it’s just his memories of Hydra rearing their ugly heads again, but he feels cornered, and like he’s being watched. He pulls the hood of his jacket up and lowers his eyes to the ground, shoving his hands into his pockets just in case. It’s probably just the paranoia coming back again – it claws at his brain whenever it senses a weakness – but he doesn’t want to take any chances. There are people out there who are almost certainly out to get him.

He isn’t expecting the ringing of the phone in his pocket, he definitely isn’t expecting it to come from the other phone, the one he keeps charged and checks every morning even though he hasn’t heard a thing on it since that text weeks back.

He looks at the screen: unidentified number. He answers.

“ _Hi Agent Barnes_ ,” he hears. “ _Looking good!_ ”

“Hawkeye,” he replies, looking round, but there’s no one but the usual crowd, everyone hurrying to where they need to be. The odd tourist looking lost.

“ _Now, I don’t mean to alarm you, but you might be being followed_ ,” Hawkeye says.

“Yeah, by a smartass archer who should know better,” Bucky says.

“ _Well, yeah. But by other people too_ ,” Hawkeye tells him. “ _Two at your six o’clock, the man on the bench at your eleven and the business woman on the phone at your three._ ” Bucky clocks them all silently and he has to admit Hawkeye’s probably right.

“They friends of yours?” Bucky asks.

“ _I’m a way better judge of character than that,_ ” Hawkeye says. “ _Naw. They’re looking for the Winter Soldier, from what I hear._ ”

Bucky almost freezes on the sidewalk.

“ _Relax, I’ve got you covered._ ” Hawkeye says. “ _And Nat’s gone to get your sister safe_.”

Bucky lets out his breath and keeps walking, acting as natural as he can.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“ _Seat with the best view._ ” Bucky considers this and then rolls his eyes. “ _I’m going to guide you out of there. You okay with that?_ ”

“Lead the way.” Bucky says.

*

Clint had pleaded with Nat to switch roles with him. He could have got Becca Barnes out of there, but Nat had been right that this was more suited to his skillset than hers, not that Nat wouldn’t have managed it, but it’s easier to plan an escape when you’ve got a bird’s eye view.

He’s surprised that Bucky’s still listening to him, he’d mostly thought he wouldn’t pick up the phone at all or – at best – hang up, and Clint would be forced to do this without him knowing. But he’s listening and Clint’s going to get him the hell out of there.

Nat’s set up one of their safe houses, and as soon as they get Bucky and Becca out, she’s calling in SHIELD to come and pick up the pieces of this little operation. But first Clint’s got to guide Bucky away from at least six… no, make that seven, trained operatives.

“Take your next left,” he says, and Bucky follows his lead. “I’ve got another coming up at you round the corner, can you…” Bucky sees his plan before Clint voices it and steps into the gap between two buildings immediately. “Great, he’ll be with you in three, two, one…” Bucky’s metal arm reaches out and grabs the guy by the neck, yanks him into the alley so fast that no one even notices, and breaks his neck. “Nice.” Clint says. “Does that thing come with a warranty or…”

“ _No, but it did come with the ability to do this,_ ” Bucky says, lifting his middle finger.

“You’re hurting my feelings,” Clint says. “Two more on your six, can you take them out without creating a mass panic?”

“ _Can I…?_ ” Bucky sounds offended. “ _Let me show you how it’s done_.”

And so he does. The pair go down swiftly in the next alleyway and Bucky keeps walking. Clint’s going to pretend that he’s not getting turned on by this, but watching Bucky move as he takes them down is quickly becoming one of his favourite past times.

“OK. Now we’ve still got– Shit…” Clint grimaces as he sees a car pull up two blocks away, pouring out another four guys, all of whom seem to be built like brick walls.

“ _You aren’t reassurin’ me there, Hawkeye_ ,” Bucky says.

“They’ve got reinforcements _,_ ” Clint tells him. “Lots of them. They must really think you’re something. Give me a second. I’ve got to relocate.”

It’s been awhile since he’s run over rooftops like this, but it’s like falling off a bike – or off a building, he supposes. He takes the leap from a run up and there’s a moment soaring through mid-air when he thinks he’s going to make it, then a moment when he’s sure he’s not. In the end he does both, sort of. He manages to grab the next rooftop with his fingers, but he face-plants into the side of the building, kissing the bricks. His face is going to be one huge bruise tomorrow. His knees as well. But all his teeth still seem attached, and he'll take that victory.

“ _You see where they are?_ ” Bucky asks.

“Still repositioning,” Clint tells him, trying not to let the strain of pulling himself up show in his voice. He’s pretty sure he fails at that.

He ignores the pain and scrambles up the wall and over the top as best he can, running to jump onto the next building, luckily a bit closer than the last gap, so he makes it with room to spare.

When he heads to the edge he catches sight of them again. More agents have appeared out of nowhere. The place is crawling with them, but still too many civilians for him to be happy.

“I count almost ten bad guys down there with you,” he tells Bucky. “I think this is going to get messy.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Can you find me somewhere quiet?”

“You sure?” Clint asks. “You don’t want to call in your backup?”

“You are my backup,” Bucky says, and doesn’t that just give the day a nice warm glow? “You gonna find me somewhere to do this, or not, Hawkeye?”

“On it!” Clint says. “I’ve got an alleyway three blocks away, the road’s quiet, we shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“ _We?_ ” Bucky asks.

“Well you didn’t expect me to let you have all the fun, did you?” Clint says. “There’s a group of students about to turn round the corner now, use them as cover, they’ll get you past the guys in front of you. Then take the next right, followed by the second left.”

“ _Gottit_.”

*

Bucky’s screwed. He should have called Steve. He knows that. He should have called SHIELD, he knows that too, but he doesn’t want anyone else getting in the way of this. This is his fight.

Hawkeye’s guiding him from above, his voice is firm and clear, and Bucky’s trusting him. He hadn’t even considered not doing it, just following his directions like they’re on the same team. But there are bigger things to worry about now. After years of putting all this shit behind him, they choose to show up now. Of course they do. He’s alone, no Steve, no SHIELD, no one watching his back.

Except a crazy archer who, by rights, should want Bucky out of his hair.

The alleyway is perfect. Narrow enough that they won’t be able to come at him more than two at a time, a wall at the far end that he can climb over easily enough, but which means they won’t be able to come at him from both sides easily, and a decent amount of cover to keep them from shooting him.

He turns and waits.

He’s dealing with the first two when another one walks in and is promptly shot down – an arrow in the throat. He’s dropped his phone, and even if he had it, he wouldn’t have time to say thank you, too busy dodging a man with a hypodermic needle, but he makes a note that Hawkeye’s there.

He hears a whirr behind him and ducks as a tranq dart flies over his head. Whoever these guys are, Hydra or otherwise, they want to take him alive.

*

Clint’s taken out three, but they’re still coming. He makes it four just as Bucky chokes another out, then whirls to take out the next. He’s lost track of how many there are, but he thinks some are missing. He hopes they haven’t gone round to block off the exit routes.

He’s saved from wondering where they are for much longer after he takes care of a man trying to shoot Bucky in the back with a tranquiliser rifle and hears the thunder of footsteps from behind him. He supposes it was a bit much to hope that they wouldn’t notice the arrows raining down from above.

Time for another relocation.

The alley’s too wide to jump across, and back the way he came will mean leaving Bucky in the middle of things with no help, which pretty much leaves him with one answer.

The goons erupt onto the rooftop and Clint picks a few of them off. One of them makes it close enough that Clint hooks his bow around his neck and strangles him with it, using him as a human shield. He doesn’t want to give up the high ground. If he leaves them up here then they’re going to rain hell down on the alley and there’s no way Bucky is getting out, which means that Clint’s got to take them down.

He hopes Bucky’s got things handled down there, because Clint’s going to be busy for a little while. But the man’s poetry in motion, quick sure movements, taking down bad guys like he was made for it.

It’s a pity that he has to drag his eyes away, but needs both of them to fight the guys coming at him.

It’s a mess of dodging, tumbling and kicking. Someone has a knife, someone else a gun. He prioritises the gun and earns a slice to his arm for his trouble. But they both go down.

He grapples with another, a swift kick shattering the guy’s kneecap and sending him stumbling, giving Clint enough time to pull an arrow and stab it into his eye, pulling it back immediately, to bring the arrow into his bow and draw it back. It flies, taking out another one, and then they’re on him again, the last two.

These two are more difficult. One of them’s noticed the wound in his arm and grabs at it, digging his fingers in so hard it makes Clint’s head spin, the other pulls a gun, but Clint manages to knock it from his hands, sending it skittering over the side of the roof, down to whatever’s happening below. Clint thinks Bucky’s still alive, he hopes he is. Although the sounds of fighting from below have died down, which is either a positive sign or a negative one.

Goon one must have been a boxer in a past life; he’s pounding at Clint’s ribs with a vengeance, every blow forcing the air from Clint’s lungs. He reels back, but Goon two grabs him.

Clint’s forced to his knees, but Goon two is the sort who thinks an ankle sheath is cool, and Clint manages to pull the knife from it and slam it straight up into the guy’s head in one movement.

He’s barely finished the movement before the other guy grabs him from behind and they end up grappling, both struggling to get a decent grasp on each other.

It ends up with Clint’s head and shoulders dangling over the drop, Goon one looming over him, punching him in the face. Just when he wanted to look pretty, too. The guy pulls back his arm for another hit when there’s a _bang_ from below and a bullet hole appears in his forehead. The look of surprise on the goon’s face is very satisfying – for the ten seconds it takes Clint to realise that the guy’s toppling over the edge, his body weight shifting without him to control it anymore, and he’s dragging Clint with him.

It’s like a slow motion trapeze move, Goon one goes first, his head dropping down, his legs spinning round his body, his entire body pivoting around where his hand is still caught in Clint’s shirt. Then gravity hits and Clint’s jerked down too by the dead weight and he’s pitching over the side.

This is so not how he wanted to die.

He hopes Nat doesn’t kill Bucky for accidentally causing this.

Clint’s fallen a lot of times, so the feeling is familiar. The corpse loses its grip after the first few feet, meaning Clint can angle himself for the least physical damage. He’s still not looking forward to hitting the pavement.

It comes sooner than he expects it, and the ground is a lot softer than he thought it would be – a lot louder too.

It still hurts, though.

He stares at the sky, which is mocking him with its happy blue and cartoon-like clouds, and realises that he’s not dead.

He also realises that it smells like garbage.

Levering himself up takes some effort. His arm’s still killing him from where the blade hit it, and his ribs and back are hurting something terrible, but he still seems to be in one piece.

“Do you need a hand?” Bucky’s voice asks. He appears over the side of the dumpster and offers his left hand.

“Do I look like I need a hand, Barnes?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

“I have two of them already,” Clint says. “Which means I have just enough to do this–“ he reaches out and grabs the side of the dumpster– “ and this.” He flips Bucky off with the other hand. But when he goes to haul himself forwards his entire torso protests and he sighs. Bucky’s hand is still outstretched.

Clint stares at it for a second before taking it and letting himself be pulled gently out. He stands with a groan and brushes himself down.  He looks up to find Bucky standing close, really close. The expression on his face is hard to read, but it’s making Clint’s insides squirm in ways he can’t quite describe. Bucky lifts a hand towards his face and Clint’s heart swoops a bit in his chest. Maybe he hit his head on the way down because everything feels a little floaty. Bucky reaches out to him and… pulls something from his hair – orange peel. Oh, right. Clint’s covered in garbage. That makes sense.

He becomes aware of sirens in the distance. Of course there are sirens, gun fire will do that. Bucky hands him back his arrows, which is sweet, but he’s left at least four up on the roof. He hopes Nat will find a way to pick them up for him. He can always make more, but it’s a matter of principle now.

“We should get out of here,” Bucky says. “I’m guessin’ you don’t wanna be caught by the cops.”

It wouldn’t be the first time, but considering the circumstances it might be a little hard to duck out of this time.

“I’ve got a place we can go.” Clint says hesitantly, because a SHIELD agent’s definitely got better places to be, but Bucky nods, like it’s just that easy.

Bucky pushes an arm under Clint’s shoulders and they limp out of the alley, contestants in a strange three-legged race, before the cops make it to the scene. Clint gives the directions to the nearest of his and Nat’s safe houses.

*

The safe house is pretty much as Clint remembers it – a three room apartment. There’s nothing special about it, just a blank canvas that Clint and Nat have never drawn their personalities onto.

Bucky’s still on the phone with his sister when they arrive. She’s safe with Nat and more worried about him than anything else. Bucky reassures her that he’s fine as he hangs up while Clint closes the door behind them and starts taking off his jacket. It pulls at the cut on his arm, making him grimace.

Bucky must notice, because he’s immediately _there_ , gently pulling it off Clint’s shoulders and down his arm. He’s close again, not as close as he’d been in the alley, but close enough that his breath is ruffling the hair on the back of Clint’s neck. The apartment feels very small and quiet all of a sudden.

“--- believe-- let --- ‘em stab you,” Clint hears. His hearing aids have been playing up all the way back. They’re cutting in and out, but he gets the gist, twisting around so he can lip read if he has to.

“I didn’t let him stab me,” Clint protests. “I was a bit busy with the other guys. And it’s not like it’s serious. I’ve cut myself worse shaving.” That may be a bit of an exaggeration, there’s a lot more blood there than Clint had expected, but he’s got a point to make.

“I can [pe? me? Be?]leave that,” Bucky says.

Well, that’s great. He was aiming for suave, but he’s bleeding, smells like a dumpster and he can’t hear half of what Bucky’s saying, so he can’t even rely on his smart mouth to pull him out of this one.

“How [do? To?] you e[ven?] survive?” Bucky asks. Clint glares at him.

“Hey! I’m a highly trained…” Clint doesn’t even finish the sentence before he sighs. “Mostly I think it’s Nat.”

Bucky chuckles and Clint can’t hear it properly, which is just not fair. He likes Bucky’s laugh.

Bucky is way too close, right in Clint’s personal space, so close he must be able to feel the pulse of Clint’s rapidly beating heart where his hand rests on Clint’s arm. If feels like the world has drawn down to just the few feet of space the two of them occupy.

The silence feels heated, weighted with things that Clint has been very good at not thinking about – or at least pretending he’s not thinking about, like the curve of Bucky’s mouth, or the look in his eye, or what Bucky’s lips feel like. Because he knows that now, and he can’t forget it.

He told Nat this was a bad idea. He knew that him and Bucky being in close quarters would end badly.

Bucky’s hand slides up his arm and Clint jerks back, his sense of self-preservation (small as it is) kicking in.

“I should… I smell like garbage.” He does. “Need to clean my arm. Uh… make yourself at home.”

Bu- Barnes, Clint has to remember that, pulls back a little as well, blinking, confused and maybe a little hurt, though his face wipes clean quickly enough. But Clint still saw that moment of expression and it’s almost enough to make him step forwards again. But he resists the urge and turns to the bathroom instead, beating a dignified retreat.

He walks into the edge of a table

Maybe not so dignified, then. At least he can’t hear whether Barnes is laughing at him.

*

Bucky sits on the sofa and tries not to think about Hydra. It wasn’t them. He’s checked with Steve and Clint agrees that this was a different group. He’s not sure if that’s better or worse. Either way, he’s thrumming with adrenaline still. The fingers of his right hand drum against his leg and his brain shifts in circles. He concentrates on the positives, Becca’s safe, he’s still free and SHIELD is clearing up the mess, or so the Black Widow assured him over the phone. He’s texted Steve, who assures him that it’s true, but insists that Bucky lie low for the time being.

He’s already looked around the apartment once, and it’s probably what he’d expect from a safehouse. It’s mostly neutral, neutral walls, matching cheap furniture. There’s a small TV and a bookcase that’s empty apart from a handful of books presumably left over the years, one trashy romance novel with a fainting heroine on the front, one pulp horror and a copy of ‘Cooking for Dummies’.

There’s a corkboard on the wall that’s obviously been used. It has pin holes and he can see the map of where things have been stuck to it in the faded patches between them. There’s also a dartboard, all three darts stuck in the triple twenty stripe, in a perfectly straight vertical line, of course. Bucky almost laughs at the sight, no need to wonder who that was.

There’s food in the fridge, so someone was planning on being here.

The shower is a low hum in the background, every now and then a louder splash of water comes, and Bucky’s definitely not picturing what’s going on behind the locked door.

He’s pretty much screwed. He’s been telling Steve over and over again that it’s not a crush, it’s not an infatuation, it’s just… professional respect. He’s been telling himself that too, and maybe that’s how it started, with that shot, that impossible shot in Mexico. He just wanted to meet the guy who could make a shot like that, and maybe break his nose for fucking up Bucky’s mission.

But he’s a person, a ridiculous person who takes pictures of pirates and dogs and who’s saved Bucky’s ass when it was in the firing line on two separate occasions, when he didn’t even need to.

Bucky’s phone chimes with two texts, one from Steve, checking that he’s safe, the other from Becca telling him that he’s going to have to tell her exactly what’s going on. He sends Steve a quick reply, asking if there’s a plan and assuring him that Bucky’s fine. As it’s sending, the shower switches off.

They’re going to need medical supplies to deal with Hawkeye’s cut. That’s something he can do. The brief look Bucky got at it, it seemed like it might need stitches. His phone chimes again with another message from Steve.

The plan, it seems, is for Bucky to stay exactly where he is. Bucky doesn’t tell Steve he’s got company and Steve doesn’t ask, though he must suspect if it was the Widow – Natasha – who told him where to find the remains of the retrieval team. Bucky pockets the phone again and keeps looking for the first aid kit.

There’s nothing in the kitchen, so he heads to the bedroom, checking in the first night stand. There’s a small purple case in the drawer. It’s too small to house medical supplies, but Bucky unzips it anyway, curious.

Sitting inside are two hearing aids and Bucky stares in confusion. Everything in this place fits with what he knows about it, everything but this.

Maybe Hawkeye is borrowing the flat from a friend. Maybe they’ve broken into someone’s house. But it doesn’t look like anyone really lives here, it’s too sparse.

The door to the bathroom opens and Hawkeye steps out, shirtless, head craned to look at the wound on his arm. His ribs are turning varying shades of purple and Bucky’s wincing just looking at them, but the cut on his arm is still the most pressing thing. It looks deeper than Bucky thought. Stitches would probably be a good idea.

He’s too busy wondering whether they have the medical supplies to stitch it up to realise the hearing aids are still sitting in his palm.

Hawkeye sighs and turns to him and his eyes go comically wide as he sees the hearing aids there. It clicks for Bucky in a strange moment, like losing his sense of balance.

“These are yours?” he asks. Hawkeye’s eyes are watching his lips.

“Yeah,” Hawkeye says. He holds out his hand for them. “You mind? If we’re going to have this conversation, I should probably be able to hear it.” Bucky hands them over, watching as he pulls out some others from within his ears, which explains why Bucky hadn’t noticed them before, and he loops the new ones carefully over his ears. It feels intimate, watching it, like Bucky should avert his eyes, but at the same time that feels rude, so he just keeps watching.

“How does no one know you’re deaf?” he asks and Hawkeye laughs.

 “How much does anyone know about me? I’m Hawkeye. ‘The Deaf Assassin’ doesn’t really have the same ring to it. People would think…” he shrugs. “You don’t give away your weaknesses, do you?”

“How do you…?” Bucky’s not sure how that question ends, but Hawkeye seems to understand him.

“You’ve got one arm, how do _you_?” he asks with an eyebrow raised in challenge. Bucky laughs.

“Right.” He pulls himself together. “You got any medical supplies around here?”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye looks him up and down. “Are you injured? You should have said–“

“I meant for you,” Bucky interrupts and they both lapse into silence, looking at each other. Hawkeye gives a one armed shrug and looks abashed again, rubbing a hand across the back of his head.

“Injury’s a part of the job. I’ll be fine.” Bucky just shakes his head.

“You’re not fine. Where’s the first aid kit? You need stitches.”

“Naw, it’ll be fine,” Hawkeye says, twisting to look at it again. Bucky just aims a flat look at him. “Really. I don’t need-“

“Where’s the first aid kit?” Bucky repeats and Hawkeye capitulates and tells him.

Bucky finds it in the bathroom, well stocked, and carries it back to the bedroom where Hawkeye’s still sitting on the bed, looking exhausted.

*

Bucky’s hands are gentle as he cleans the cut and applies the butterfly stitches he finds. His metal fingers are gentle too, which Clint wasn’t expecting. They’ve picked up a chill from the winter air, but they warm up quickly enough from Clint’s flushed skin.

Clint’s keeping his mouth firmly shut in an attempt at damage limitation, but it’s a futile hope. He’s going to have to speak sooner or later and he’ll say something stupid, let something slip. And Nat’s abandoned him to it. This is feeling more and more like a set-up. But that’s not Nat’s style. She’s got another agenda. She always has another agenda.

“Relax,” Barnes says. “You’re tensin’ up.” He rests his right hand flat against Clint’s back and it feels like a brand, burning into him.

“So when are SHIELD breaking down the door?” Clint asks, trying to break the tension that’s rising. He’s aware of every point of contact between them, and very aware of where they are, sitting on the only bed. He should have moved into the living room while Bucky went to get the first aid kit, but he’d just stayed sitting on the bed like an idiot, and that makes this feel _more_ somehow.

“SHIELD aren’t coming,” Bucky says. Clint wants to turn his head because he doesn’t know Bucky’s voice well enough yet to judge the emotions behind that sentence. But if he turns his head he knows just what he’ll do. He won’t be able to resist closing that gap between them. He’s replayed that kiss at the gala a dozen times or more and he needs to know whether everything he remembers is true.

“Why not?” he asks, breaking the moment again, breaking his line of thought before it can get him into trouble.

“That’s the second time you’ve saved my life,” Bucky points out. “I figure that gets you a free pass.”

“Don’t think that’s how it works, Agent Barnes.”

“That’s how it works today,” Bucky tells him in a tone that brooks no arguments. “I’m not a SHIELD agent right now.” One of his hands slides down the side of Clint’s face, so soft it’s barely there and Clint has to let out a shaky breath. “You’ve got some bad bruising, Hawkeye.”

Fuck it.

“Clint,” he says. “My name’s Clint.” He can’t resist turning then, and the look of amazement on Bucky’s face is worth it. “If you’re not a SHIELD agent, I guess I’m not Hawkeye.”

“I think you’re probably always Hawkeye,” Bucky tells him. He raises his left hand to swipe his metal thumb across Clint’s busted lip and they haven’t broken eye contact yet. Clint’s mind is yelling at him to look away, but he’s not listening. He’s swaying just that little bit closer. “Nice to meetcha, Clint. I’m Bucky.”

“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” Clint breathes. He can barely hear his own voice, it’s so low and quiet. It’s all too close and too much. He’s still moving closer when his stomach saves him by rumbling loudly. He leaps to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his side.

“Food,” he declares, taking a few steadying breaths as Bucky shakes his head.

“Can you even cook?”

Clint tries to look offended.

“Of course I can cook.”

Cooking is dangerously domestic, with Clint chopping things as Bucky steals bits and tells him when something’s burning, which is more often than Clint would like. There is a dance going on, one that Clint doesn’t realise he’s part of for a long time.

He’s trying to keep a good four feet between him and Bucky at all times. It’s safer that way. Every time Bucky moves closer, Clint finds a way to slip away. The vegetables need washing, he needs another pan. He doesn’t notice what Bucky’s doing, pressing in a little bit closer every time, then pulling back, pushing into Clint’s personal space and then withdrawing, coming from different angles, but always leaving him with an escape route, while Clint dodges past him. Checking the boundaries until Bucky’s got him against the counter, reaching over to grab a piece of carrot from the chopping board. His arm is so close that Clint can feel it, but they’re still not touching. Bucky’s cheek hovers just a little distance from Clint’s neck. If Clint leaned backwards, just slightly, they’d be pressed together along the whole length of their bodies. The thought makes him shiver a little.

“You don’t have any allergies, do you?” he asks. His voice sounds too low, breathless.

“Carrots,” Bucky says. It sounds like he’s smiling as he pops another piece of carrot into his mouth and crunches down on it.

“Asshole,” Clint says and Bucky pulls away again, leaving Clint a lot colder than he thought it was in the small kitchen.

After that the dance gets more complicated, now that Clint knows it’s going on. They move around each other and it’s almost like fighting, except they never touch. Clint’s in a state of constant awareness, of every part of his body, always waiting for the moment that they inevitably touch, when one of them misjudges the distance and brushes up against the other, but it doesn’t come. They come close, so close that the hairs on Clint’s arms stand on end, but the distance is never quite bridged.

When they finally sit down for dinner, he’s so on edge he can barely think straight. His body is wired and buzzing. In spite of it, he somehow manages to keep things going like everything’s normal and he doesn’t want to leap across the table and into Bucky’s lap. Dinner goes well. Clint tells stories about past jobs, carefully edited for SHIELD’s ears and Bucky listens appreciatively.

“Budapest was you?” he asks.

“You heard about Budapest?” Clint asks, surprised.

“ _Everyone_ heard about Budapest.”

Bucky has some stories of his own, mostly about Steve’s inability to back down from a fight. Clint gets the impression that they’re all pretty heavily edited as well, but it doesn’t really matter.

They end up playing one-up-manship over shots as Clint grabs the dishes and sticks them in the sink. He’s just finished telling Bucky about how he once made a shot from the back of a motorcycle while Nat was weaving through traffic and hit a guy on a helicopter, when he realises that Bucky’s moved. He’s not standing propped against the counter any more, he’s stalking towards Clint and Clint’s mouth runs dry. The words are all gone. He knows he was about to say something, but the sentence has gone from his mind.

His eyes are stuck on Bucky’s and there are very valid reasons why this is a terrible idea. Reasons that involve Clint’s idiot heart and Bucky’s job, but he can’t piece them together into anything that makes sense at this moment in time.

Bucky’s walking closer and closer and Clint’s not moving. He’s just standing there, back against the wall, as Bucky comes right up into his personal space, stepping inside it like it’s not even an issue, bracing his arms on both sides of Clint’s head and leaning right in so that Clint has to tilt his head to avoid their noses colliding.

“You’re impossible,” Bucky says. The words go straight from his mouth into Clint’s, which has fallen open slightly. It sounds like a compliment; it sounds like a revelation.

Clint’s very aware that he could slide one of his legs between Bucky’s right now, that he could step forwards and find the friction that he desperately wants.

“I’m pretty sure SHIELD has rules about this sort of thing,” he says instead. It’s the first time either of them has acknowledged where this is going and the words fall into the air heavily.

“Fuck SHIELD,” Bucky says. He’s moved closer, because his lips actually brush against Clint’s, sending an electric shudder through his body.

“I think that might get a bit-“ Clint’s not-funny joke is cut off as their lips collide.

It’s as electric as he remembers it, but this time neither of them’s pulling away. Bucky’s surging forwards, pressing Clint into the wall even as Clint’s levering himself away from it. His hands have found their way to wrap around Bucky, one in his hair, the other pressed tight into the small of his back.

Clint’s attention is focused on their mouths, but he can feel the other points of contact too, like beacons of heat. Bucky’s right hand against his jaw, light and gentle, a contrast to the maelstrom elsewhere. It hurts, Bucky’d been right about the bruises, but Clint can’t bring himself to care. He’ll take a little pain right now for this.

Their legs are slotted together and Clint can’t resist pressing up into the contact, his hips moving without conscious thought and he pulls back and groans at the sensation, letting his head tip back against the wall. Bucky takes advantage of the situation to move his attention to Clint’s neck and Clint didn’t realise his neck was this sensitive.

And apparently a little ticklish. He can’t stop the laugh, or the way he pulls away. Bucky backs off immediately, but their bodies are still touching in half a dozen places.

Clint’s head clears for just long enough that he can think about how this is all going to go wrong. But he’s got no will-power and Future!Hawkeye can deal with the consequences. Clint is not backing out now. He can do this. He can have this one night. Better than living with the might have been. Impulse control is for losers.

Bucky’s mouth opens. It’s too pink and Clint’s staring at it before his eyes are dragged back to Bucky’s as the hand on his chin tilts his face upwards. There’s concern in Bucky’s face so Clint says the first thing that comes into his mind. Fuck SHIELD. Fuck tomorrow. Fuck consequences. Even if this is part of some elaborate honey trap scheme, Clint doesn’t care. He’s having tonight.

“Too many clothes.” He tugs at the Henley Bucky’s wearing and watches the grin that spreads across his face, wicked but happy. Clint traces it with a wondering finger, but has to pull back when the shirt’s pulled off over Bucky’s head and thrown to one side.

“You are terrible at flirting,” Bucky tells him.

“I sent you a pizza,” Clint protests, stripping off his own shirt, barely getting it over his head before Bucky’s hands are touching him again.

“Fucking pepperoni.”

Bucky seems to have decided to move this away from the wall and starts moving backwards, pulling Clint towards the sofa, his other hand unbuckling his belt as he goes.

“Who doesn’t like pepperoni?” Clint asks, undoing his own pants.

“And that picture,” Bucky says. “Was that supposed to be me?” Clint laughs. He’d almost forgotten about that.

“Did you keep it?” he asks. Bucky shakes his head.

“Handed it over to SHIELD.” The idea of SHIELD looking at his silly not-quite-stick figure drawing makes Clint grin even wider. He kisses Bucky for the ridiculousness of it, and then kisses him some more just because.

“You’re one to talk,” he says in between kisses. “You asked me for a sponge bath.”

Bucky freezes, his hands on the zipper of his pants, pulling away to stare at Clint. Clint stares back, trying to work out what just happened. He’s standing in the middle of the apartment in just his underwear. Without Bucky’s hands on him, it’s kinda cold.

“What?” he asks, hugging his arms around himself and bouncing on the balls of his feet because he's too wound up not to move.

“You were the nurse _–you were the fucking nurse_.”

Oh, right… that.

Clint shrugs.

“Wanted to know if you were alright,” he says, reaching for Bucky’s pants. He does not want to be the only one standing pantsless in the middle of the room.

“You-“ Bucky’s openly gaping at him, like Clint’s mad or something. “SHIELD were everywhere. You’d done the job. You could have left the country. You _should_ have left the country. You-“ Clint makes a small sound of triumph as he manages to free Bucky from his pants, sending them slithering to the floor.

He’s pulled off balance as Bucky yanks their lips back together, not as gentle this time. More pain, but better too in a way. The pain makes it real, and it isn’t like Bucky’s not already kissing it better. Clint smothers a laugh at that. Bucky’s almost growling into the kiss. Clint’s not one hundred percent sure what’s going on, but he can get into this.

His right foot steps onto something ridged and it takes him a second to realise that it’s Bucky’s pants, still around his ankles. By then they’re already falling, Bucky spinning them so that he lands first, Clint on top.

Luckily they’re close enough to the sofa that it breaks their fall. They look at each other for a wide-eyed moment and Bucky bursts out laughing. Clint decides to chase the vibrations of it across Bucky’s stomach with his lips, stopping only when the metal fingers of Bucky’s left hand cup his chin and tug him back up.

“How many times have we met?” he asks. Clint can’t be bother to count now, and just shrugs.

“I don’t know, a few. Maybe five.” He tries to get back to what he was doing because there is so much skin available now and Clint’s pretty sure he wants to taste all of it. But Bucky pulls him back again.

“Five?”

“Maybe,” Clint doesn’t see why this is important right now.

“The gala, with you in that mask, the hospital, when you were the goddam nurse. When else?” Bucky asks. Clint’s brain is really not up for conversation right now. He tries to convey this by rolling his hips down. That gets a gratifying moan to fall out of Bucky’s mouth. Clint rolls half off the sofa, ignoring the pulling in his ribs and his arm to grope for his pants on the floor. “What are you doing?”

“Condom,” Clint says, before freezing, because Bucky hasn’t really been doing much of anything since he found out about the nurse thing, which maybe Clint should have been paying attention to a bit more. He looks back over his shoulder at where Bucky’s lying sprawled on the sofa, hard and flushed and… “Unless you don’t…” Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Get the damn condom and get over here,” he says. “I just want to know how many times I’ve been an idiot.”

“Not an idiot,” Clint tells him, pulling himself back and sitting up to tear open the condom packet. “I’m just really sneaky.”

“Not sure I believe that,” Bucky says, inhaling as Clint rolls the condom on. “I would’ve thought I’d remember you, is all.” The look in his eyes as he stares at Clint is heated and dark and way better than anything Clint’s been imagining. He grins like he just made the perfect shot.

“How about I remind you by showing you exactly what I can do with my tongue?” he says in Spanish. Bucky blinks, then his face creases, trying to work out – there it is.

“You were the bartender. You absolute _fucker._ ”

“That’s the idea,” Clint agrees, then proceeds to reduce Bucky to one syllable words and noises by wrapping his mouth around his cock and applying liberal use of his tongue skills.

*

Bucky wraps his left hand round the top of the sofa and gropes with his other to find Clint’s hair. His head is thrown back and his throat is making nonsense sounds, but he can feel the soft prickle of the hairs at the base of Clint’s skull. The man’s a fucking genius at this. Bucky can’t even think of the words. Everything’s just wet and hot and _more_. His mouth is babbling, urging Clint on in broken half sentences as everything blurs and gathers, coiling up and building up until a swipe of Clint’s tongue sends him flying over the edge with a wordless cry.

It’s over faster than his ego would like, his hips bucking up into Clint’s mouth and Clint humming encouragement around him as he free falls through his orgasm. It hits him bodily, sending his mind reeling and his muscles spasming.

Everything’s loose and far away for a while, and Bucky lets himself drift before pulling himself together. His eyes open lazily to see Clint grinning down at him. His lip is swollen again, but this time not from pain, and Bucky reaches a heavy arm up to touch it, only realising when his thumb is brushing against Clint’s bottom lip that it’s his left arm. Clint doesn’t seem to notice and just sucks it into his mouth as well, his eyes half-lidded as his tongue swirls around the digit.

“You’re fucking impossible,” Bucky says, just like he’d said earlier. He feels like it’s the only sentence that could cover what he’s thinking – what he’s feeling – right now.

He knows this has been building for a long time, since Mumbai, definitely, probably since Dubai, maybe even since Mexico.  It’s a mess and it’s glorious. Bucky rakes his eyes over Clint, even with the bruising his body is amazing. He’s amazing. And he’s not a shadow right now, he’s not slipping away. He’s the man who makes impossible shots, the man who sends pizza and pictures of dogs. If Bucky only gets him this one night then he’s going to make the most of it.

“So…” he says as Clint releases his thumb. “Want to take this to the bedroom?”

“Sofa not good enough for you, Barnes?” Clint asks.

“Just think we might need a bit more space for what I’ve got in mind.” He grins, lazy, sated. He hasn’t done this in a while, maybe, but he remembers how he looks, knows how to make someone’s knees go weak and what smile to use. “Unless you don’t wanna–“

“Fuck yes,” Hawkeye leaps to his feet and heads for the bedroom door and Bucky takes a moment to appreciate the view, stretching himself out, cat-like, over the sofa cushions. Hawkeye looks back at him. “Get a move on, Barnes.”

Bucky swings himself up and crosses over to where Clint’s standing in the doorway, outlined by the bedroom light. He wraps an arm around Clint’s waist and buries his nose into the skin of his neck, mouthing at it, pulling Clint’s body back into his.

“Thought you wanted to take this to the bedroom,” Clint says, sounding breathless, then laughing as Bucky finds the ticklish spot again. Bucky smiles at the sound. He has a really nice laugh.

It rings another bell in Bucky’s mind, he’s heard that laugh before somewhere. But there are more important things right now.

Bucky swings them round the door frame so Clint’s pressed into the wall, face first, tilted so that the bruised side is away. Bucky presses up all along his back, hands exploring the planes of his muscles. He wants to say something, tell Clint what an idiot he is, that he needs to be more careful. If Bucky had realised… but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want to waste time.

He kisses his way up to Clint’s ear, his nose touching against the plastic of his hearing aid, before pulling away, not sure what touching them will do.

“Now we’re in the bedroom,” he points out and Clint laughs again. Bucky can feel it all down his body.

“Can’t believe you were the fucking bartender,” Bucky breathes into the back of Clint’s neck.

“Huh?” Clint twists to look at him. “The aids don’t pick up everything. What did you say?”

“I said,” Bucky pulls back and steps towards the bed. “That I can’t believe you were sitting flirting with me across that fucking interview table and I didn’t notice.”

“I wasn’t the only one flirting,” Clint points out. “And you were a little distracted staring at my arms.”

“They are nice arms, “Bucky concedes, reaching out for one, avoiding his neat line of stitches. He’s going to have to be careful.

“Not so bad yourself,” Clint says and Bucky grins, preening a little as Clint’s eyes graze over him. “Now I think you said you had something in mind…”

“We’re gonna need some-”

“Wait right here!” Clint exclaims. Starting for the bathroom, leaving Bucky naked in the middle of the room. He skids back in with a box of condoms and a bottle of lube. “Found these earlier, with the first aid kit. When Nat says she’s stocked a place, she really means it.”

Bucky doesn’t care how they got there, he just tugs Clint forwards and pushes him back onto the bed. He falls gently with a surprised ‘oof’.

“You’re injured,” Bucky tells him, trailing his fingers as gently as possible down the bruises on Clint’s side.

“It’s not serious, I can still…” Clint loses track of his words as Bucky climbs over him, one leg either side of Clint’s body. He kisses him to shut him up. He keeps kissing him until he’s sure the man’s at least a little bit senseless, then pulls back.

“The plan is that you lie back and try not to exert yourself while I ride you,” Bucky tells him. Clint’s eyes glaze over a bit and his dick twitches against Bucky’s ass. Clint lets out a shaky breath.

“Yeah… we can do that.”

*

Bucky wakes, rigid, in the middle of the night. It’s to be expected, of course. The fighting earlier, the remembered panic of the last time he’d been ambushed. He’s surprised the nightmares aren’t worse. He lies still, stiff and frozen for a moment, then lifts his hands just to prove they’re both there.

He can hear some gentle snores from the other side of the bed and he glances over to see Clint, asleep and oblivious. He’s not an attractive sleeper, his mouth hangs open, drooling, his body is strangely wrapped around itself and his hair is all sticking up in different directions. But the sight of him makes Bucky smile and a fond feeling tightens in his chest, warm, although the nightmare left him feeling cold.

The feeling is smothered almost immediately by the memory that tomorrow things go back to normal: he is a SHIELD agent and Clint is his mission. He’ll have to choose whether or not to share the things he’s learnt today with Coulson and SHIELD.

A thought bursts into his head that maybe he could just – not go back. But the bubble pops almost as soon as it appears. He won’t leave Steve and he can’t live the kind of life that Hawkeye lives, killing people for money. It feels too close to what he was before.

No. It was this night and nothing else, and some day in the future he’s going to have to make a decision and that decision might have to be to kill the man lying next to him.

Fuck.

Bucky rolls out of bed and glares at his hands, balled into fists, one flesh, one metal. He needs to move and he needs to shut off his brain.

He’s on push-up fifty two when Clint rolls over in the bed, flinging his arm out, and realises that Bucky’s gone. He’s on push-up fifty seven when Clint sits up in bed, grimacing and tugging at his ears, looking around the room. He’s on sixty five when Clint catches sight of him and starts walking round to Bucky’s side of the bed to sit down, cross-legged on the floor, his head leaning against the mattress. Bucky keeps counting.

They stay like that for a while, Clint sitting, drowsy-eyed, watching Bucky rise up and down, up and down. Eighty five, eighty six. Neither of them says anything. Eighty nine, ninety.

He hits a hundred and pauses, his arms straight and stiff. He’s sweating slightly, but he’s not out of breath.

Clint rolls forward and presses his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder, just above where the metal meets flesh.

“Come back to bed,” he says into Bucky’s skin.

When Clint stands up, Bucky follows. They don’t talk about what happens next, they don’t talk about what just happened, they just lie back down on the bed and Clint moves to pull off his hearing aids and sets them down on the nightstand.

“Not supposed to sleep with them in,” he says, his voice a little strange, a little too loud. “’s uncomfortable.” He stretches, yawning, and Bucky watches. Then Clint lies down properly and rolls over to wrap himself around Bucky, his face mashed into Bucky’s chest.

The sound of his breathing is soothing, the feel of him on Bucky’s chest is a comforting weight and Bucky lets himself be pulled back into sleep.

*

The next time Bucky wakes up, sunlight is peering in at him through the curtains and he is alone – no sound of anyone else in the apartment.

He sits up and notices that the hearing aids are gone, replaced by something else: an arrow, straight and deadly looking, dark purple fletching and a wickedly pointed head. It rests on top of a note.

 _Heard you wanted to get your hands on one of these_ , it says and underneath it is the squiggle of an arrow that Hawkeye always signs with.

Bucky picks up the arrow gently, as if it might break. It’s balanced and weighted perfectly, and the shaft is perfectly straight. He twirls it around his fingers and tries not to imagine that it means anything, though he knows it does.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by a knock on the door. His gun is with his pants in the main room and he scoops it up as he passes, stopping to pull on his pants as well as a second thought. As far as he knows only Clint and the Black Widow know about this place, but he isn’t taking any chances.

“Buck?”

Ah – Steve then. Bucky opens the door without raising the gun, although it’s still in his hand. Steve looks at him, looks down at the gun and then at the arrow still caught in the hand on the door handle and then back at Bucky’s face.

“You OK?”

“Yeah, Steve. I’m fine,” Bucky tells him, standing aside to let him in.

Steve doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue the point, which Bucky counts as a victory.

“How’d you find me?” Bucky asks as Steve walks in. He sees Steve’s eyes notice the dishes on the drainboard – two plates, two glasses, two sets of cutlery – and Bucky’s shirt on the floor where he’d tossed it the night before, the open bedroom door with the messed up sheets beyond it. Steve might even notice the used condoms in the trash, Bucky doesn’t ask. Steve doesn’t tell.

“Got a text this morning from Black Widow. Just this address,” Steve tells him.

They’ve burnt the safehouse completely, then. Good. Bucky can give it up without guilt – as soon as he’s cleared the evidence away.

“You sure you’re OK?” Steve asks again, he’s looking Bucky over again and Bucky knows he must look debauched. Steve’s seen him the morning after before, there’s no way he doesn’t know what happened last night. “If something happened, you can talk – if you want.”

“I’m good,” Bucky says, twirling the arrow in his fingers again. “I’ll grab my stuff and we can get out of here.” The concern slips from Steve’s face, changing into his look of resolute determination. He claps Bucky on the shoulder once and that’s all that’s said about the matter.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Plot" points that snuck into the smut: Bucky realises that Clint was the nurse in the hospital, and tells him he's an idiot. Then he asks whether they've seen each other at any other times. Clint's a little busy but tells him they've met about 5 times (some of which did not appear in this fic). Clint admits to being the bartender. 
> 
> Also, Bucky has a lot of not entirely unromantic feelings about how awesome Clint is.


	10. The Farewell Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint tries to make the long distance thing work, Bucky allows himself to be wooed, Natasha's plan kicks into high gear, and Steve just wants Bucky to be happy.

**A Train in Northern Europe**

They take jobs in Moscow and Krakow, guys who meet all their usual criteria, but Clint’s heart’s not in it. They’re on the train, Poland fading into memory behind them, when he finally summons up enough courage to say it.

“I’m not sure how long I can keep doing this, Nat.” He doesn’t look at her, just leans his head back against the headrest and looks at the train roof. She’s looking out the window and doesn’t say anything for a minute. He’s worried that she hasn’t heard and he’s going to have to say it again.

“I know,” she says finally. He can feel her looking at him then, but Clint keeps his eyes away. He doesn’t need her to see this. Or maybe he doesn’t need to see her as she looks at him right now. “It’s alright,” she continues. Her voice is soft and firm and comforting. “I have a plan.”

He rolls his head so he can look at her, but her face isn’t giving anything away, but when does it ever?

“A plan?” he asks and she smiles, small and secretive, but not dangerous for once. “This the same plan you’ve been working on for the last few months?”

“Do you trust me?” she asks.

“You know I do.” More than he trusts himself, that’s for sure.

“Then I can make this work. First we need to go to London, then another few places.”

“You wanna tell me what this is about?” he asks. Nat’s smile grows.

“When we get to London,” she promises. She never gives anything away unless she has to. Clint’s intrigued, but he doesn’t push it. He’s known her for long enough to know that he won’t get anything out of her she doesn’t want to tell.

*

**Washington D.C.**

Coulson looks at the two of them across his desk and Bucky’s grateful he’s got such a good poker face. He’s managed to get through the whole debriefing about the kidnap attempt without mentioning Hawkeye – who is 'Hawkeye' again, just as Bucky is 'Agent Barnes' – as more than a faceless shadow on the rooftop.

Steve doesn’t comment, he’s following Bucky’s lead, and technically he hasn’t seen anything. He hasn’t even brought up the arrow that Bucky definitely does not have on one of the shelves in his apartment.

Coulson’s suspicious, though, but he’s good at his job so of course he’s suspicious. Bucky doesn’t think he’s guessed exactly what’s going on. He’s not sure Steve knows exactly, but he probably understands enough.

“Now you’ve been reinstated, we’re not sure what to do with you,” Coulson says. “The Hawkeye and Black Widow assignment has been reassigned.”

“And how’s that going for you?” Bucky asks.

“Agents Rodriguez and Parker are very experienced.” Bucky snorts at the tone of Coulson’s voice. It’s so bland it might as well be screaming that he’s not saying everything.

“You didn’t even know they were in New York, did you?” Bucky asks. The line of Coulson’s mouth is enough to tell him the answer to that.

“If you’d like to return to the case-“

“No,” Steve says firmly. “I think we should be reassigned.” Bucky can’t even pretend he’s only disappointed because it’s a mission left incomplete. He grits his teeth together and keeps his face blank. Steve’s right. He’s too close. He wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. The idea of someone else pulling the trigger is just as unthinkable. But Hawkeye’s – well, he’s a mess, an impossible, ridiculous mess whose body is littered with scars that Bucky has traced with his tongue. But he’s good at his job and the Widow has his back. Clint will be fine. SHIELD aren’t getting anywhere near him.

Which just leaves the question of what he and Steve are going to do now.

“Who were they?” Steve asks. “The people who came for Bucky. You’ve done a lot of talking, but none of it really explained who they were or why they wanted him.” Coulson nods.

“Of course, that information is-“

“Considering I was the one they were after, I really don’t think it’s that classified,” Bucky says, glad to be on a new topic. Coulson meets his eye and hmms.

“You’re right of course,” he says. “SHIELD is aware of a network of illegal arms traders,” he says. “You came into contact with them in Dubai. They are ruthless and they deal with many organisations that SHIELD is opposed to.”

“Like HYDRA,” Bucky says. Steve’s mouth twitches at the name.

“Like HYDRA and the Red Room,” Coulson says. “There are many members and they have no central control as far as we can tell. From what we can gather, one of their clients recently requested a certain weapon.”

“What weapon?” Steve asks, but Bucky already knows.

“They wanted me,” he says.

“Indeed.”

“Bucky’s not a weapon,” Steve says automatically.

“To these people he is,” Coulson says. Steve’s looking stubborn, but Bucky taps his arm lightly and gives him a sharp look when their eyes meet. This isn’t a battle that needs fighting. Bucky knows he’s more than a weapon.

“We want in,” Bucky says, before Steve can say it for them. “You want to know what to do with us? We want to help you track these guys down.”

“It’s SHIELD policy to allow agents time between long-term missions,” Coulson says. “It’s written into your contracts. So for now you’ll be based here in Washington and running smaller missions until your skills are needed.”

“That’s-“

“You will be involved in the search for the men behind this,” Coulson says. “But not in an immersive capacity, not for at least another six months. It’s regulations.” Steve looks about to argue, and Bucky feels like it. They’ve just been suspended for weeks and now they’re on desk warming detail. It feels like a punishment. Coulson doesn’t look like he’s willing to brook arguments, though, and as soon as Steve nods Bucky makes himself follow suit.

*

The first postcard arrives almost a month later. They’ve just come back from assisting with a siege situation in Jacksonville and Bucky’s dog-tired when he walks through the door, kicking it shut behind him. He heads straight for his bed so he doesn’t know how long the postcard’s been sitting in his mailbox when he finally finds it.

He almost throws it away with the junk mail before he notices the glossy picture of a big red bus and Big Ben in the background. He doesn’t know anyone in London, but he turns it over anyway. His address is scrawled on it, along with a single letter: C.

The next day he takes it into the office with him for his debriefing, meaning to hand it over to Coulson, though he’s not sure what he’ll say. It's what he's supposed to do. It's his job. And they both knew that it would be like this. They both knew.

Steve’s in for his one-on-one and Bucky’s sitting at his desk pretending he has work to do when a woman walks up to him. She’s short, barely reaching five foot tall, and the smile on her face makes Bucky twitch, it looks forced, like someone’s cut it out of a magazine and stuck it on her.

“Hi!” she says. Bucky doesn’t reply. “You must be Agent Barnes.” She holds out a hand and Bucky considers it for a minute before remembering that alienating people he works with is probably not the best plan. She grips too hard, like she’s trying to make a point. “I’m Agent Parker.” He recognises the name. “I’m working on the Hawkeye-Black Widow case with Agent Rodriguez, since you were… reassigned.” The pause before the word ‘reassigned’ gets Bucky’s hackles up, but as she’s actually here, he can hand over the postcard personally. He opens his mouth to speak, but she’s still going on. “It was such a shame to hear that you weren’t able to manage.” Bucky’s mouth clicks shut. “I mean, we’ve only just started, and obviously a lot of it’s down to the tremendous work that you and Steve did.”

He knows she’s never met Steve, so why the fuck is she using his first name? He eyes her.

“But I feel like we’re really making progress,” she says. “I mean, it must have been a struggle for you, being promoted so suddenly to such a difficult case. It’s no shame on you, or Steve, of course, that you didn’t get to see it through to the end. You shouldn’t feel like you failed. It was just time for more experienced agents to take over.”

“Right,” Bucky forces himself to say. He’s pretty sure that it comes out sounding more like ‘fuck off’, but he really doesn’t care. Sadly, neither does she. Her smile is growing, and Bucky forces himself to remember the paragraph in his contract regarding injuring his co-workers. Punching her in the face would be frowned upon. He might even get suspended again. “So, it’s going well?”

“Oh yes,” she tells him, beaming her big magazine smile, all full of teeth. “We’ve just got some new information about their location.”

“Oh?” Bucky asks.

“Yes,” she leans in conspiratorially. “Rodriguez and I are flying to Salekhard Airport tomorrow.”

“Siberia?” Bucky asks, thinking of the postcard in his pocket.

“Yes, we’ve got good intelligence that Hawkeye and the Black Widow have been there for a few weeks,” she says. “We think they might have a base there. I understand that you and Steve didn’t go to Russia at all while you were on the case…?”

“No,” Bucky says, his hand moves away from the pocket where the postcard is. “I guess it didn’t occur to us.”

“Sometimes we do miss the obvious things,” she says. A man sticks his head through the door and waves at her. “Ah, that’s my partner. I should be going. I just wanted to come and check that there were no hard feelings.” She smiles in a sympathetic sort of way and Bucky actually manages a smile back that he doesn’t think conveys exactly how much he hopes this woman falls down the stairs and breaks both her legs.

“No, of course not. No hard feelings,” he tells her.

She strides out of the room and he can’t hold back the huff of laughter. He takes the postcard out of his pocket and flicks it against his hand.

He doesn’t hand it over to Coulson in the end. If Parker thinks she’s got it, then who is he to interfere? Let her tie herself in knots. It’s not Bucky’s problem anymore.

The postcard is still in his pocket when he gets back to his apartment that night and he props it up on his bookcase and looks at it again.

It’s not like it’s even that useful as evidence anyway.

*

**Copenhagen**

London sends them to Copenhagen, where Clint sees the Little Mermaid, who’s much smaller than he thought she’d be, and eats a lot more cheese than he’d anticipated.

He also makes some new friends, who seem so fond of his company that they’re running after him to try to stop him leaving. Sometimes his charm is such a burden.

“Nat,” he says. “If you’re not too busy.”

“ _I told you not to make the joke about his nose_ ,” she replies.

“The man has no nose, Nat. I was trying to break the awkward silence.”

“ _The silence was less awkward_.”

His legs are beginning to burn from the running. He needs a crowd to blend into, or a convenient motorbike to steal, or an extraction from his partner would be nice. But as none of those seems to be available right now, he guesses he can stick with the running. The people chasing him are bound to get tired soon.

Clint gives a quick glance over his shoulder and nope, they haven’t given up yet. He’s really regretting that extra burger at lunchtime.

He can do this. He just has to keep his mind on the goal: the look on Bucky’s face when Clint walks into his apartment and says ‘honey, I’m home’ and tells him that he isn’t a wanted fugitive anymore. OK, so that look is likely to promise murder and be behind the business end of a semi-automatic, but that’s just how they communicate.

“Nat,” he says again. He thinks they’re gaining on him.

“ _Go left_ ,” she says. He darts across the street, narrowly missing being splattered on the hood of an Audi that honks angrily at him. A cyclist swerves to miss him. “ _Left side of the road_ ,” she prompts, so Clint crosses over. “ _When I say jump, jump_.”

He’s about to ask what she means when he sees the road tilt up ahead. There’s a bridge over another road. He can see the traffic whizzing under it. Right. He’s about to jump off a bridge into a busy road. Only problem: he doesn’t have his bow with him, or a grappling arrow. On the plus side, he doesn’t think any of his pursuers is going to be stupid enough to follow him. But Nat’s got a plan. He hasn’t annoyed her enough lately that she’d want to kill him this badly.

“Remind me why we’re doing this again,” he says.

“ _Because you’re a hopeless romantic_.” Ah yes. “ _Speed up a bit, or you’re going to miss it_.”

“Yes ma’am,” he replies and struggles to find more energy in his already cramping legs. He manages, though he’s definitely going to be stiff tomorrow. There are shouts behind him. Come _on_ , why aren’t they tired yet? It wasn’t even that bad a joke.

“ _Now_ ,” Nat gives the order and Clint vaults over the railing, closing his eyes and hoping that she’s in a good mood.

There’s a moment of freefall that sends his stomach swimming towards his throat. The wind whistles past his ears. Then his feet hit something that’s moving fast. His body automatically goes into a backwards roll as the sudden change in direction throws him off balance. Luckily, he doesn’t end up flying off the back of anything.

Cautiously he opens one eye and then the other. A dozen or more faces are staring at him, all different shapes, sizes and skin tones. Clint takes a quick look around. He’s on the top deck of one of those sightseeing buses.

There’s a murmur of voices as he pushes himself to his feet, but Clint can’t make out any specifics. He ignores the flash of a camera. The faces of the tourists stare at him expectantly. He supposes it’s not every day that someone drops from the sky.

He lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his head. They’re still staring at him. Aw, shit.

“Parkour?” he offers.

The word breaks some sort of spell and everyone starts talking at once. The number of voices and different languages overloads his hearing aids for a minute. He’s about to try turning them off and on again when he sees a woman in a brightly coloured polo shirt stalking towards him. She has a microphone headset and a name badge on, so she’s probably official.

“Sir, [it?if?in?] you’re – on (thin? This?) bus – pay.” Clint nods.

“Right, yeah. Sorry about dropping in unannounced. How much is it?”

“ _Are you paying for a sightseeing tour of Copenhagen?_ ” Nat asks. “ _Make sure you bring me back a souvenir_.” Clint can’t reply without sounding crazy, so he just pulls out his wallet and hands over an extortionate amount of money. He’s about to go and sit down when he thinks of something.

“Do you sell postcards?”

*

**Washington D.C.**

The second postcard is more of a mystery. Not the location, because that’s obvious enough from the little mermaid image on the front. Hawkeye’s in Copenhagen, although Bucky knows for a fact that Rodriguez and Parker are still in Siberia somewhere, apparently surveilling him. Bucky smirks.

Steve’s with him this time and sees the postcard.

“You know someone in Denmark?” he asks.

“Apparently.” Bucky flips it over, expecting nothing more than the C he had before, but he’s wrong.

_Watch and you’ll see_ , is scribbled on the back. Just that, nothing more. He rereads it. Is it a warning? A hint?

Steve snags it out of his hand and frowns at the words.

“Is this a threat?” he asks, looking at Bucky seriously now.

“No,” Bucky replies. At least, he doesn’t _think_ so. Probably not. More likely a warning than a threat, he thinks. Or maybe just to tell him Hawkeye’s going to be in town soon.

He props it up next to the first, though this time he’s frowning rather than smiling.

Bucky spends the next week on edge, jumping at shadows, until Becca comes for a visit and decides that her sisterly rights include going through Bucky’s mail.

“Ooh,” she says, catching sight of the postcards. “Someone’s been on holiday!” She turns them over and frowns at the C, obviously trying to work out who he knows with that initial. “Not much of a writer, huh?” She turns over the other one and chuckles.

“What’s funny?” Bucky asks. Becca looks up and blinks.

“I see what he did there,” she says, waving the postcard. Bucky just stares. “Oh my god! You didn’t get it? It’s a picture of the Little Mermaid.” Bucky nods. “And it’s a line from one of the songs from _The Little Mermaid_. I can’t believe you didn’t recognise it. I spent over a year singing every song from that movie.”

“It’s a line from a Disney song?” he asks, before sighing heavily.

“Why? What did you think it was?” Becca asks. He shifts a little uncomfortably under her gaze, feeling foolish for getting worked up over the words to a _Disney song_ of all things.

“Weird song to choose, though,” she says, setting the postcard back on the shelf. Bucky just shrugs. Clint’s a weird kind of guy. At least he can stop wondering when something’s going to leap out of the shadows at him.

Well, wondering more than his regularly scheduled paranoia anyway. But that’s just healthy.

He straightens the postcards as he passes, ignoring Becca’s smile. She knows nothing.

*

**Hong Kong**

Clint’s not sure at what point he actually agreed to dangle off the skyscraper, but this is how Hong Kong has ended up. At least he’s got a good view. In the middle of the night the city is a galaxy of coloured lights.

He takes a picture of it and sends it to Bucky with the caption ‘ _Hanging out in Hong Kong_ ’.

“ _Why are you giggling to yourself_?” Nat asks. Clint doesn’t answer. “ _Stop texting your boyfriend and open the window. I’ll be with you in a minute_.”

Opening the window involves a laser cutter that Clint hasn’t exactly tested. He’s really hoping it works. He sticks his phone back in his pocket and starts cutting.

It breaks half way through, the laser cutter, not the window, because the window breaking would actually be useful. He looks at the useless hunk of metal in his hand and lets out a breath.

“The hard way it is,” he says, forgetting that Nat can hear him

“ _Problem_?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he says in as reassuring a tone as he can.

Which is how he ends up jumping on the side of a building like it’s a trampoline.

Stupid.

Reinforced.

Glass.

His feet go through the window, the glass shears across and then Clint’s swinging wildly.

“ _On my way_ ,” Nat says as Clint flies back out into open air. He’s spinning, which isn’t good. He really needs to be facing in the right direction for this next bit.

He turns back to the building and he can see Nat running toward him.

She jumps, he _barely_ catches her and they cling on for dear life as the motor switches on and reels them upwards.

He doesn’t check his phone again until they’re free and clear. Nat has gone to bed, sick of listening to him complain about the bruises his harness has left in some interesting places, but Clint can’t sleep and he looks at his phone on reflex.

_Are you literally hanging off a building right now? You’re gonna break your idiot neck._

Clint taps out a reply and sends it.

*

**Denver**

Bucky and Steve are on a stakeout. It’s the least fun Bucky’s ever had in a car, and he’s had some pretty boring road trips in his life. At least in Afghanistan there was the ever present question mark over whether this time would be the time you drove over the IED.

Here there’s not even a change of scenery. He’s pretty sure this is Coulson’s revenge for when he got bored last week and did the STRIKE team’s job for them. Not his fault they were standing around with their thumbs up their asses.

Steve’s handling it even worse than Bucky. He’s perking up like a meerkat every time someone goes close to the target building. If Bucky hears him sigh one more time…

The buzz of the text coming in is a blessing and Bucky doesn’t even notice which phone it’s on until he’s already reading it.

“That’s your Hawkeye phone,” Steve says. “You’re still using that?”

“The only thing I own SHIELD can’t get inside?” Bucky asks, looking at Steve with his best ‘are you crazy’ expression.

Steve doesn’t ask who the text is from. Instead he pauses and looks like his mind is waging a private war against itself over the next words to come out of his mouth. In the end, he loses the fight. “You know I’m on your side,” he says. “Whatever happens.”

Bucky stares at him again, this time adopting an expression that he hopes conveys exactly how big an idiot Steve is. It seems like when they made his muscles bigger, they also increased the stupid, a tragic side effect.

He texts back instead of commenting. The next reply doesn’t come for a while, during which time Bucky’s a little concerned that Clint might have _actually_ plummeted to his death from a Hong Kong skyscraper.

_Back on solid ground. That was nothing compared to the high wire. I had a harness and everything!_

Steve glances over, but doesn’t comment as Bucky replies.

_So the circus thing is true, then?_ It takes a moment for Clint to answer.

_Shield knows about that?_

_I confirm or deny nothing,_ Bucky responds.

_Yeah, I was in the circus. That’s why I’m so flexible_. Bucky can practically hear the leer in his voice, and the winking emoji is probably literal. His phone buzzes again before Bucky can word a reply. _We can arrange for another demonstration if you want_.

Bucky stares at the words. They don’t change and there’s no doubting the meaning of them.

Steve’s watching the building, ignoring Bucky, or pretending to. Anything to give the illusion of privacy. Bucky feels lost for a moment, because he knows he’s already fallen too far down this rabbit hole.

Another buzz.

_Or not_.

Bucky sets his jaw and replies, feeling like he’s walking off a cliff.

_Another demonstration might be needed_.

*

**Hong Kong**

Clint stares at his phone in shock. He rereads the words. He wasn’t expecting… He’d just… How does he reply? He looks over to the other bed, where Nat’s sleeping as still and softly as she usually does. She’ll kill him if he wakes her up for this. She’s already doing enough for his sorry ass. He owes her something really special, maybe a new knife. Or a gun small enough to hide in one of those ridiculously tiny clutches she sometimes has to use when she’s undercover. Maybe a tank, she might like a tank. Not for everyday use, obviously, just for special occasions.

Even with the plan, even with what happened in New York, Clint hasn’t ever really thought about it being possible. It’s just… He types up something before he can rethink it.

_I’ll be in touch_.

*

**Washington D.C.**

Bucky’s expecting the Hong Kong postcard when it comes, and there’s no writing this time, just a picture of someone walking a tightrope. At the laugh it brings, Steve looks up from the ball game on TV. He notices the postcard and nods.

“You know I just want you happy, right?” he says, so earnest that Bucky has to throw a pair of rolled up socks at him.

“Shut up.”

*

**Istanbul**

SHIELD still doesn’t waste money on unimportant things like hotel rooms or food, even when the trip abroad is a one-off rather than an everyday thing. Bucky’s not surprised.

So once they’ve checked in to their hotel in Istanbul, he has to take a walk to get away from the cramped walls of their twin room, which was not built for someone Steve’s size. He buys a paper from a kiosk and walks through the Istanbul market.

Stall holders call out to him, selling everything from food to furniture. Some reach out to pull at his sleeves, but the look on his face stops them quickly enough.

He’s on edge. Since the kidnapping attempt in New York he’s always on edge in public spaces and large crowds. Coulson has informed him that their intel says the Winter Soldier is no longer at the top of anyone’s shopping list, but he’s not got much faith in SHIELD’s intel, considering the last ‘known sighting’ of Hawkeye was in Paris when Bucky knows for a fact that Clint was in Singapore.

There’s a tug on his pocket and he spins on the spot to grab at whoever’s trying to pickpocket him, but there’s no one there. He scans the crowd and, between the faces there’s a flash of blue eyes and blond hair, with a flick of fingers in salute.

Hawkeye’s definitely not meant to be in Istanbul.

His fingers find a piece of paper in his pocket, and Clint disappears into the crowd.

The paper has an address on it and a time, along with the instruction ‘on the roof’. He crumples it in his hand and throws it into the fire on the food stall nearby.

*

The sound of the call to prayer is ululating from the mosque as the sun begins to set. Bucky reaches the rooftop in question to find no one there. He checks his watch to see that he’s ten minutes early. He feels uncertain of himself.  This is a bad idea. He knows he’s not going to call SHIELD. They’re not here for Hawkeye, even if he does show up.

Why hasn’t he shown up?

Bucky’s phone buzzes against his leg.

_East wall. Look in the bag_. Bucky look over and, sure enough, there’s a brown paper bag sitting on the east wall. He approaches it cautiously.

_It won’t bite. Promise_ , says the next message. Bucky carefully unfurls the top of the bag and is hit immediately by the smell of cooked fish and spices. He pulls out one of the fish sandwiches that he’s seen them selling. It smells delicious.

_There’s more_ , another text tells him and he looks again. There’s a smaller bag inside and Bucky takes it out to find an earpiece inside, identical to the ones from Mumbai that are now in SHIELD’s vaults. He puts it in.

“ _Hey Agent Barnes_ ,” Hawkeye’s voice says in his ear as soon as it’s in place. It can’t be a coincidence. He must be able to see him. “ _Thought I’d buy you dinner. Do things properly. Don’t want Agent Rogers hunting me down because I’m not treating you right._ ” Bucky starts at the implication that this is more than just an inadvisable hook-up. He takes a bite of the sandwich to cover up his surprise and can’t help the small hum of pleasure at the taste. “ _Good right? Istanbul has the best street food. I mean, Mumbai’s good, but this place…_ ” Clint makes a sigh and Bucky smiles at the sound of it without meaning to.

“You gonna join me?” he asks instead, still looking around.

“ _Is there a STRIKE team waiting in the wings to take me in?_ ” Clint asks.

“We both know if I were going to do that I would have done it before now,” Bucky tells him. It’s true, and it’s alarming how true it is. He knows without a doubt that he isn’t going to turn Clint in. He might even go out of his way to help the man escape. “I’m not… that’s not going to happen,” he says.

He looks out again, and a figure stands up on the rooftop opposite, waggling his fingers in a cautious wave.

“ _Considering our situation, I thought it might be better if I didn’t get too close_ ,” Clint says, walking over the roof to perch on the wall opposite Bucky. He holds up a bag similar to the one Bucky’s holding. “ _This place is crawling with SHIELD agents, you know_.” Bucky knows. There’s some big arms deal rumoured to be going on and half of the Triskelion’s been emptied. There’s even a suggestion that HYDRA might make an appearance.

“No one knows your face,” Bucky points out.

“ _Not worried about me_ ,” Clint says dismissively. “ _Already got you suspended once_.”

Bucky stares across the gap at where Clint’s sitting, stuffing his face with his own dinner and kicking his feet out into the air.

He looks… well, not good exactly – his cheeks are ballooning out with food and there are bags under his eyes – but seeing him is a relief, and something in Bucky relaxes just slightly. Bucky wants to ask what he’s been doing and remind him to get some sleep, but asking about work can only end badly and Bucky's got no place to give him advice. Instead, Bucky takes another bite of his sandwich and they sit in quiet for a moment or two.

“So, the circus?” Bucky asks eventually, unable to keep his curiosity in check. Clint groans dramatically down the comms. “You hadta know I was gonna ask.”

“ _Yeah, yeah_ …” Clint sighs and sets his shoulders, like he’s preparing for a fight. It’s an odd reaction to something Bucky thought would be pretty harmless to ask. “ _How much do you know?_ ”

“I saw the outfit, _Amazing Hawkeye_ ,” Bucky tells him. “Very glittery.”

“ _Don’t knock the glitter, Barnes._ ” Bucky laughs at the mock glare on Clint’s face and pulls himself up to sit on the edge too, mirroring Clint’s posture. “ _A little sparkle goes a long way_.”

“A little?” Bucky asks. “Did you see yourself? You were like a giant purple sequin.”

“ _You’re just jealous ‘cause you couldn’t have pulled off a look as spectacular as that_ ,” Clint replies immediately, not sounding in the least embarrassed.

“Yeah, jealous,” Bucky replies. “That’s what I am.”

“ _Aw… I’m sure you’d look great in glitter_.”

“Better’n you, that’s for sure.” Even with the street between then, Bucky can see the gleam in Clint’s eyes and he wonders if he should be worried. “Not your best look, Hawkeye.”

“ _You preferred me with the tattoos, didn’t you?_ ” Clint says, winking at him, his smile still huge.

“That wasn’t what I was thinkin’ of,” Bucky tells him, pitching his voice low and raking his eyes over Clint’s body to make it clear exactly what he means.

Clint splutters around his food, it might be the spices burning the back of his throat, but Bucky smirks all the same. Apparently Clint remembers that look. Maybe he can convince the guy to get over here and see it up close, sitting on a rooftop in Istanbul is not a good time to get aroused.

“ _Uh…_ ” Clint says eloquently, and Bucky smiles at him in a way he knows looks frankly predatory. “ _I think I promised a demonstration._ ”

“I think you did.” Bucky licks his lips, and it’s not just to catch some of the taste that lingers there.

Clint sets the remains of his food down and pulls himself to his feet so he’s standing on the edge of the building. He makes a show of stretching out his arms and rolling his neck. The buildings aren't that close, but Bucky's pretty sure that Clint can make the jump.

“Get your ass over here,” Bucky says but Clint grins, shaking his head. He flips himself easily into a handstand and spreads his legs into the splits in the air. The startled ripple of Bucky’s laughter is enough to spur him into tumbling.

“That’s some demonstration,” Bucky says as Clint’s landing a twisting back somersault. Clint pauses and gives a small bow.

“ _I can shoot a bow and arrow with my feet as well,_ ” Clint says. “ _It’s been years, but it’s one of my party tricks. I like to pull it out every now and then. It’s a useless skill, but it does tend to make people’s jaws drop.”_

“Seriously?” Bucky asks, trying to picture it. “And you can actually hit something?” He’s seen the guy’s shooting skills in action, but with his _feet_.

“ _I never miss_ ,” Clint tells him. He tips himself into a handstand again and then pushes himself into a one-handed pirouette on the edge of the wall that drags soft swear words from Bucky’s mouth. His heart is thudding, and he’s not sure if it’s at the sheer amount of strength in that arm, all that’s holding Clint up, muscles gold in the dying light, or if it’s the idea of Clint faltering, falling to the street below.

“Do you like falling off buildings or somethin’?” Bucky asks. “Stop showin’ off before you hurt yourself.”

“ _Aw… You worried, Buck?_ ” Clint asks, putting all his weight onto the other arm. He sounds a little breathless now, his voice a little rough, and that brings back memories too. God Bucky’s wound so tight and all he’s done is look at the guy. His heart rate’s in double time.

“About what your partner will do to me if I let you break your neck,” Bucky says after a moment, his thoughts skirting too close to the truth. Clint sighs and flips himself back over, right way up.

“ _Nat wouldn’t hurt you,_ ” he says. “ _She likes you._ ” Bucky raises an eyebrow pointedly. “ _No. Really. She hasn’t even shot you once._ ”

“Didn’t get the impression she liked me all that much when she was sitting on my sister’s sofa,” Bucky says.

The look on Clint’s face is comical, the way his head jerks. Clearly The Widow hadn’t told him that titbit.

“ _She what?_ ”

“Came to see me in New York. Guessin’ she didn’t tell you about that.” Clint shrugs, but his face looks thoughtful, like he’s figuring things out, more than just what Bucky said. But he doesn’t ask what she said.

“ _She does what she wants,_ ” Clint tells him with a shrug. “ _I’m just along for the ride._ ” Bucky stares at him incredulously; does he honestly believe that?

“Yeah, _that_ ’s how it works,” Bucky says after a second, trying not to scoff. “So, tell me about the circus. How d’you end up there?”

Clint grimaces.

“ _Aw, no. I’m really good at not telling this story. You sure you don’t wanna see some more tricks?_ ” For a second, Bucky considers letting him off the hook, but he’s the one who brought it up. “ _It’s not as exciting as it sounds_ ,” Clint continues, his voice hesitant.

“You don’t have to…” Bucky starts, to reassure him, but Clint holds up a hand.

The sunset is beautiful, and it’s spilling onto Clint’s face, painting him bronze. It feels like a weird between time, neither night or day, and Clint smiles a little dopily at him, lopsided and special. Bucky feels a swirling sensation in his stomach, and he wants to reach out and touch. He gets the sense that Clint’s feeling the same sort of thing.

“ _Naw. It’s okay. Just don’t expect a happy ending, okay?_ ”

*

**Washington D.C.**

It’s been three weeks since Istanbul, and they’ve been interminable, between the actual SHIELD work and their torturously slow investigation behind the scenes, Bucky shouldn’t have had the time to feel bored, but he does. He remembers a Turkish sunset and staring across the skyline. Steve’s been giving him the puppy dog look again, so Bucky agreed to come to some office party. Bert is retiring, apparently. Bucky has no clue who Bert is and when he’d asked Steve he’d got a strange look.

“Bert. On the third floor. You know Bert. Everyone knows Bert.”

Looking at the turnout, Steve’s right, everyone does know Bert. Or they’re on board for the free cake and the cheap champagne that’s making the rounds. Even Coulson has loosened his tie.

Personally, Bucky’s only here because Steve’s convinced he needs to get out more. Or, more likely, his ma thinks he needs to get out more and has managed to con Steve into helping with her master plan.

So he’s mostly here to stop Steve from giving him his disappointed look. And partially for the cake.

He reassesses that after he sees the cake. It’s not that it’s massive, which it is, or the fact that it looks delicious, which it does, it’s the fact that the decorator had clearly had some real trouble with the piping.

Bucky assumes that it’s supposed to say ‘Wishing you well, Bert!’ but something’s gone terribly wrong with the W at the start of ‘well’, so it looks a lot more like an H. He laughs and gets a dirty look from an agent nearby. He thinks the guy works in HR. He smiles right back at him until he sniffs and walks away. Then he gets out his phone to take a picture of the cake, sending it to Clint, who will definitely appreciate it.

He then finds his way to the edge of the room so he can watch the proceedings. Clint texts back a second later.

_What did Bert ever do to them?_

_No clue. Never met the man._

“Barnes!” a familiar voice calls out and Bucky doesn’t try to hide the irritation he’s feeling. He thought that Parker was miles away.

“Parker,” he says, grinding the name out through his teeth. He turns, but doesn’t say anything more. In his experience unnerving people with silence is one of the best ways to get them to leave him alone.

“I heard you were lurking around somewhere!” Bucky thinks maybe she’s made him her personal scratching post, it certainly seems that way. He sees something moving towards them and there’s Rodriguez tagging after her. “Thought we should catch up.” By which she means she wants to tell him how much better they are doing on the case than he and Steve had. She pauses and Bucky hopes that his expression is indicating clearly how very easy he would find it to kill her right now. His left arm would crush her like a bug.

“I just wanted to give you an update on the case.” Bucky doesn’t answer, just nods at Rodriguez when he waves a greeting. “We almost caught up with them in Paris. Raided one of their safe houses. Even managed to get a picture of Hawkeye at the airport.”

“Really?” Bucky says, trying to sound politely interested, when really his pulse has just skyrocketed. “A picture.”

“Yes, I know,” she says. “It’s very exciting. Actual photographic evidence. It’s with the analysts at the moment, but we can finally put a face to the name.”

“Can I see?” Bucky asks. She frowns for a second, but Rodriguez is already pulling out his phone and bringing up the image to show Bucky.

He suppresses his laugh at the picture. It’s not Clint, the bone structure’s wrong., The guy is blond, but that’s where the similarities end. He hands it back and keeps his face carefully blank, maybe with a slight hint of disappointment.

“Looks like you’re making good progress,” Bucky says.

“Yes,” Parker agreed. “We’re tightening the net, focusing on Hawkeye, obviously, as the weaker link. Black Widow’s the real brains of the operation – anyone can see that.” Bucky’s mouth opens and shuts twice and he narrows his eyes. “Hawkeye’s just the muscle,” Parker continues. She nudges Rodriguez, who hums in agreement rather absently around a mouthful of cocktail sausages.

Bucky laughs. It’s not a friendly sound.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” he says. “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating him. He doesn’t have to be anywhere near you to kill you. He’s been evading capture for years. Well before he and Black Widow started pallin’ around.”

Parker face takes on a supercilious air.

“The man shoots arrows; he’s hardly a strategic genius _._ ”

“To shoot those arrows he calculates angles, wind speeds and a thousand different variables in his head. He does all that with greater accuracy than the best trained snipers in the military, and with a bow and arrow. That takes skill and brains. You’re tellin’ me he survived this long and became one of the best in the business because he got lucky?”

“Not lucky, maybe but…”

“That man could run rings around you in your sleep, Agent Parker,” Bucky says, pushing off from the wall to tower over her. “He could be standing right in front of you and you wouldn’t know it. You’d better hope that-“

“Bucky!” Steve’s voice calls out and there’s suddenly an arm on Bucky’s shoulder that it takes all his willpower not to fight against, he’s so tightly wound. “There you are. Ah, hello there!” He looks at Agent Parker like he's only just noticed her.

“Steve,” Agent Parker says.

“Agent Parker,” Steve responds with his polite smile, the one that’s as close as Steve gets to telling people to fuck off when he’s not actually angry. His hand is a heavy weight on Bucky’s shoulder and he knows it’s meant both as a comfort and as a warning. Bucky forces himself to relax.

“I was just telling Agent Barnes how I feel we’re getting close to capturing our errant assassins,” Agent Parker says. “I predict that Hawkeye and the Black Widow will be in SHIELD custody before the end of the year.”

“You might be right,” Steve replies.

“Of course we’ll make sure that you and Agent Barnes both receive your share of the credit, for helping us get started,” she says.

“That’s very kind of you, Agent Parker,” Steve says. “It was nice talking to you, but there’s someone I need Bucky to meet. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” she lets them go and Steve leads Bucky across the room and the right out the far door.

“You need to let off some steam?” he asks as soon as the door closes behind them.

“No.” Bucky avoids his gaze. “That woman’s just…”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I was raised never to call a woman names, but she does test my resolve.”

Bucky laughs at the disappointed twist to Steve's face, like he’s actually troubled by that.

“You looked like you were getting ready to bury her in a shallow grave,” Steve says. “Want to tell me what that was about?” Bucky heaves in a deep breath.

“The usual,” he says. Steve’s not buying it. He raises one hand to Bucky’s shoulder and squeezes.

“It’s going to work out,” he says. He looks determined and Bucky can’t quite bring himself to ruin the illusion. Steve’s never met a problem he didn’t think he could solve. That’s just who he is. The fact that his best friend is essentially betraying everything he stands for isn’t something he needs to hear right now. “I promise you. It will work out.”

“Right,” Bucky says. “Yeah. It’ll be fine.”

*

**Washington D.C.**

When Bucky gets back from his morning run, he finds the postcard in his mailbox. There’s a picture of the Washington monument on the front of it and he turns it over to find no message and no address, but a cinema ticket taped to the back of it.

It’s for a showing in an hour of a film he hasn’t heard of.

He has the world’s quickest shower and heads out.

The theatre’s dark when he goes in to take a seat. He looks around through the dimly lit faces for one that’s familiar, but none jumps out, so he sits down and waits. Bucky feels a bit like he does before he goes into a fight – on edge, his blood thrumming through his veins, itching for something he can’t quite name.

The trailers come and go, Bucky barely notices them, still eyeing anyone who walks in.

The opening credits start and something taps Bucky lightly on the back of the head. He represses his first instinct to pull a weapon and instead turns slowly.

A second kernel of popcorn hits the tip of his nose. He follows the trajectory back to see a shit-eating grin at the back of the theatre and a smug little wave. Bucky glares, but Clint keeps grinning and gestures for him to look back at the screen.

Bucky does.

Something falls into his lap. He picks it up. A peanut M&M. He eats it. Another one follows.

He has no idea what’s going on in the film. Something involving a lot of bangs and car chases. Someone’s been framed for something and their girlfriend’s in danger. M&Ms fly into his lap for a little longer and then they stop just as suddenly as they started. He figures Clint must have run out. But nothing else happens either and when he turns around the seat Clint had been sitting in is empty. Bucky frowns and goes back to looking at the screen. Maybe something came up. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility.

“He should have just slit the guy’s throat,” Clint’s voice whispers in his ear. Bucky freezes. How did he manage to get that close?

“Should’ve shot him when he first saw him,” Bucky counters and then realises that the film probably means that Clint’s hearing aids aren’t picking up things properly so he turns so that Clint can lip read if necessary.

Their faces are close together and Clint’s smiling brightly, his face flickering with the changing light on the screen. The words go clear out of Bucky’s head.

“Dinner and a movie,” Clint says. “Told you I was doing this properly.”

The lady a few seats down shushes them.

“I think you’re supposed to sit next to each other,” Bucky says.

“Really?”

“Yeah, makes things easier,” Bucky tells him.

“What sort of things?”

Bucky presses their lips together. He intends it as a frontal attack, sudden and overwhelming, but it doesn’t end up that way. Somewhere between his plans and his lips, it turns gentle and slow.

“Right,” Clint whispers when they pull apart slightly. “Those sort of things.” He kisses Bucky just as gently. The dark is making everything easier, like it’s not really real, like it’s just as much a story as what’s happening on screen. It’s easier to be soft here, easier to be lost here.

“Would you mind being quiet? Some of us are trying to watch the film,” the lady from further down the row hisses. Bucky pulls back and looks at her, unable to keep the smile from his face.

“Sorry ma’am,” he whispers. Clint seems to take this as an indication that he should climb over the seat back to sit next to Bucky and he rests his hand on Bucky’s arm, wrapping around his wrist. They don’t speak again, or kiss, but that point of contact remains until the ending credits roll and the lights come back up.

The woman gives them a very disapproving look as they let her past, staying where they are until all the credits are gone, the songs and the studio logos too, and the clean-up crew are waiting in the wings for them to get lost.

“Dinner and a movie, huh?” Bucky asks. In the bright lights Clint looks a little abashed, scratching the back of his head.

“Yeah… I guess it’s not very original, but…” he trails off.

“Couldn’t have picked a better movie?” Bucky asks. Clint laughs.

“The only other one with the right timing was one of those depressing romance movies,” Clint says with a shrug. “Thought this might at least be more exciting.”

The clean-up crew is starting to circle, so Bucky stands up.

“Want to go back to mine?” he asks. Clint’s face falls.

“Can’t,” he says, looking at his watch as though it has betrayed him. “I’ve got to be moving. We weren’t even meant to be in Washington at all, but it was only a little bit out of the way so I…”

“And you thought we should spend two hours watching a terrible film?” Bucky asks. Clint shrugs, grinning a bit helplessly.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he suggests. Bucky sighs. He gets the feeling that will probably be carved onto Clint’s tombstone.

“So you’ve got to go?” Bucky asks. “How soon?”

“Five minutes ago,” Clint tells him.

“Right,” Bucky pauses. He wants to ask Clint to stay, but he holds his tongue. Clint looks like he might want Bucky to ask, but he’s got places to be. “Then I guess I’ll see you around,” he says.

“See you around,” Clint tells him. They stare at each other for another moment before Clint sighs and jumps over the seats in front of them and heads out. He’s just leaving the row when Bucky grabs his arm and pulls him back for a kiss, as deep as he can make it. There’s a wolfwhistle from one of the cleaners.

When he releases him Clint reels backwards, rocking on his feet slightly, his eyes wide and blinking, then he grins.

“See you around, Barnes,” he says, giving a salute, and then running to the exit. Presumably to appease Natasha, who is no doubt waiting for him.

“Your boyfriend’s cute,” the cleaner nearest him says and Bucky moves out of her way so she can get into his row.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

*

**Seoul**

Seoul is dry and it lives late at night. The office lights are on until well past midnight and no one seems to leave work until it’s practically tomorrow, so everything’s open late. The buildings all seem to be towers of glass, but more widely spread than in New York where everything’s been pushed in together.

For once, SHIELD’s putting them up somewhere upmarket. There’s even a massage service from what Bucky’s reading on the leaflet he just picked up. The foyer’s shining with gold, it’s like another world from the places they usually end up.

“Well you don’t see that every day,” Steve says, looking up at the gold fountain that stands there. “I feel sort of like I should be coming in the tradesmen’s entrance,” he says and Bucky claps him on the back.

“Not today. Today we’re living it up.”

He doesn’t speak Korean, but the woman on reception has impeccable English and is eager to help. She seems fascinated by Bucky’s arm and barely looks away from it, but it’s not like she’s scared of it.

“Only because we’re on babysitting duty,” Steve points out. It’s another protection job, though this time they’re not going to be front and centre, they’re just here to serve as a SHIELD presence. Everyone’s being kept at the same place.

“Hey, they’ve got a pool,” Bucky says.

“Probably costs extra,” Steve points out.

“It’s just our mandated fitness hours,” Bucky replies. “All SHIELD agents are supposed to keep in shape. It’s practically part of the job.”

“You try arguing that with Coulson,” Steve says. Bucky shrugs. He’s damn well going to get the most he can out of this stay.

“Don’t you have a briefing to get to?” he asks after a moment. Steve looks at his watch and grimaces.

“You could go instead,” he suggests. As he’s been with SHIELD longer, Steve is technically the senior agent, which means that Bucky gets a free pass when it comes to some of the boring meetings, though sadly not all.

“Not gonna happen,” Bucky assures him. “But I’d sure love to hear about it when you get back.”

“Asshole,” Steve mutters, but he does have to move. “Where are you gonna be?”

“I thought I’d check out the bar,” Bucky admits. They don’t have to be on duty until tomorrow, and he’s willing to bet that a place like this has the good stuff. Steve looks even more put out and Bucky grins. “Run along now. You don’t want to keep the important people waiting.” Steve looks like he wants to say something more, but he just shakes his head and hurries off, leaving Bucky to turn towards the bar.

He’s halfway through his first whiskey – he was right, they do have the good stuff – when someone sits next to him. It’s a woman with dark hair and he doesn’t pay her any more attention than his usual sweep for weaponry and danger signs at first, until she orders her drink.

Her voice rings a bell in his mind and he turns to find himself looking into the face of the Black Widow.

“James,” she says. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Natasha,” he replies. “You just happened to be in the area?”

“Something like that.” Her drink arrives, another whiskey the same as his. She sips at it. “Don’t worry, we’re not here for your guy. We’re here for something completely different.”

“Good to hear,” Bucky tells her, not sure if he believes her. He doesn’t think she would have approached him if they were working against each other, though. Unlike Clint, the Widow doesn’t take needless risks. Everything is calculated.

“Yes,” she agrees. “But I am having a bit of a bad day.”

“Sorry about that,” he says.

“That’s sweet of you.” She swirls the whiskey around the glass. “You see, I lost my room key.” She lifts up her second hand and places a keycard on the bar top. Bucky stares at it.

She uses one perfectly manicured finger to push it over towards him.

“Can’t find it anywhere,” she goes on. “So I guess I’ll have to make other arrangements.”

“There isn’t anyone in your room who you could call?” he asks, still looking at the keycard.

“There is,” she admits. “But I have a feeling he’s going to be busy this evening.”

Bucky lifts up his hand and slowly lays it down on top of the keycard.

“What room are you in?” he asks. “Perhaps I could see if there’s something I could do.”

“1214,” Natasha says, her lips curving into a pleased smile as he pulls the keycard towards him. She stands up, lifts her glass and drains it, then gives him a wicked grin. “Enjoy yourself,” she says and then slips away.

Bucky picks up the keycard and taps it against the bar top, then texts Steve to say he probably won’t see him again until morning because something has come up.

*

The door to room 1214 looks just like all the others on the corridor, apart from the number. There’s no real reason why Bucky’s staring at it like it holds the answers to the universe, but he is. Someone shuffles out of a room further down and gives him a strange look, but he ignores them and keeps staring.

He takes a step closer, the keycard in his hand and raises a hand to knock, then stops himself.

Fed up of his own indecision, he does it all in a rush, sticks the keycard in the lock and opens the door.

It closes behind him with a very final sounding click.

“Nat. This place has a sauna!” Clint calls out. Bucky shakes his head. “Do you think it’ll be full of fat middle-aged men? Probably.”

Bucky walks slowly towards the voice, down the entrance hallway to the room, past the bathroom door, which seems to be made of glass – it might be fancy, but this hotel has some weird ideas.

“Nat?” Clint’s voice sounds less sure of itself. “Is that you?”

Bucky rounds the corner into the main part of the room to come face to face with the pointy end of an arrow.

Clint gawps at him, mouth falling open.

“Not Nat,” Bucky says with a shrug. “Sorry.”

“How did you…?” Clint still looks dumbfounded.

“I found this key, lying around,” Bucky says, holding up the key in question. “Thought I’d see where it led.”

“Where’s Nat?” Clint asks.

“Making other arrangements, I assume,” Bucky tells him. “She gave me the key then left.”

The bow lowers and is put gently on the ground, which is a little disappointing, because there’s definitely something about the way Clint holds his bow that sends Bucky’s brain tilting off balance and makes his heart beat that little bit faster. He’s going to have to see if he can get a good look at the guy shooting one day. Just, preferably not as part of his job.

They stand there for a moment, staring at each other, then they’re both moving at once, colliding in the middle of the room. It’s fierce and fast and desperate. It hasn’t been that long since the movie theatre, but it feels like a lifetime.

“How long are you in town for?” Clint asks as he pulls away to yank his t-shirt over his head.

“Three nights,” Bucky tells him.

“Then we’ve got time,” Clint says, running the tips of his fingers along Bucky’s shoulder and up his neck to his jaw. “We’ve got time.”

“Yeah.” Bucky agrees, though he’s pretty sure three days isn’t going to feel like long enough.

*

**Guayaquil**

Clint’s back is coated with sweat, his t-shirt sodden between his backpack and his skin, clinging to him as he walks. It’s not even that hot, 80° at most, but it’s so humid.

They’re in Ecuador to see a man about a decryption key, or something. Nat’s sweating the details, Clint’s just sweating. And playing Where’s Waldo with his two least favourite SHIELD agents. They’ve managed to catch up with them again, mostly because Clint and Natasha let them, deciding it was best to keep an eye on things. They’re so close to finished now, they can’t afford to lose sight of anything.

He’s found what he thinks are Ecuadorian doughnut holes, and a tiny park that seems to be full of iguanas, which aren’t as awesome as dogs, but he takes some pictures anyway. He saw a cuddly iguana in a shop a few blocks back, down by the water, and it’s now in his backpack, waiting to be sent to Bucky. It’s kind of cute.

He left agents Parker and Rodriguez barking up the wrong tree, having successfully cloned their phones over the past few days. Now he just has to sit back and wait for them to use them.

The world feels better now. It’s sort of relief, sort of excitement, because they’re on the home stretch. He can see the finish line. Clint grins as he pops another doughnut hole into his mouth, cheeks bulging out, and takes another photo of a brave iguana that has come to sit directly in front of him. It’s in the middle of the path, supremely unconcerned by the people walking past, which Clint respects.

He sends the picture to Nat, feeling absurdly happy with the world. After a second, he sends it to Bucky as well, because why the hell not.

His phone buzzes, but the screen’s blank. It buzzes again in his pocket.

Oh… not _his_ phone, one of the cloned ones. He fishes it out with a grin, wondering what stupid plan SHIELD is coming up with to capture them now. This should be interesting.

He reads the messages, chewing absently.

_Black Widow looking for key._

Clint coughs, making the iguana start in alarm, and reads the next message.

_Prevent her. Key must be recovered. Do not let it fall into SHIELD hands._

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The iguana skitters away as Clint leaps to his feet, already grabbing his own phone to text Natasha a warning.

After that, things get a bit hectic. Clint and the SHIELD agents are racing across the city. Of course, only Clint knows it’s a race. Natasha’s on her own, doing what she does best, and soon a lot of things go bang.

No one ends up with the decryption key, and no one ends up dead or arrested. Clint does have some slight bandaging on his right forearm, but other than that, they’re clear.

“Tell me that wasn’t the only key,” he says, though he’s preparing for the worst. Clint’s not really ready for his hopes to have literally gone up in smoke, but it seems like the kind of thing that would happen.

They’re in a bus on their way to the airport. He’s crammed against the window with Natasha leaning her head against his shoulder.  There’s a woman in front of them with three children playing some kind of singing game, and the scenery is blurring past the window. It's all disturbingly normal, but Clint can feel his heart sinking.

“That’s not the only key,” Natasha tells him. “That was just the easiest.”

“So the plan’s still good?” he asks carefully, a little bubble of hope welling up inside him again.

“Plan’s still good,” Nat says, her voice a sleepy whisper.

“Where to next?” he asks.

“I need to speak to someone in the DRC,” she says.

“Africa again,” Clint says with a sigh.

“Africa again,” she replies.

*

**Somewhere Between Here and There**

The co-ordinates come on their own, without any information or explanation, just a set of digits. Bucky doesn’t know whether to trust them, but he knows he’s going to follow them. They’re on the back of a postcard that doesn’t give any indication of a location. It’s just words: ‘Weird is a side effect of awesome’.  The stamp and the postal mark are from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, but the co-ordinates are only seven hours outside of DC. That doesn’t tell him much.

He sets out on Friday evening, sticks a bag full of guns and a bag full of supplies in the back of an old car and drives. The radio hums in the background, a lot of music he barely even notices as the scenery slides past.

He’s left the postcard with the others in case Steve needs to find him, but he’s left his SHIELD phone and ID next to it. This is somewhere he doesn’t want to be followed.

He’s aware that he might be driving into a trap, aware of it in the tap of his fingers on the steering wheel and the tension in his shoulders. But the text he sent got a reply.

_It’s from me. Come or don’t come. Up to you_.

It doesn’t have the usual undercurrent of humour. Bucky’s worried, though he tells himself not to be. His mind is full of scenarios.

The sun fades and twilight goes by too, leaving night. The sky is clear and full of stars, Orion hanging over the road in front of him.

It’s gone four am by the time he gets where he’s going – a place surrounded by trees with no electric lighting, but dawn is already creeping up on him and while the sun isn’t out yet, the world is lit in that strange grey half-light that never quite seems natural.

Bucky looks around, but there’s no obvious way to go, just a road, lined with trees. He drives a little more slowly and still almost misses the turn off, tucked away and barely more than a dirt track. He abandons the car, strapping as many weapons to himself as he can without clanking with every step.

He swings the other bag onto his shoulder and sets off.

Bucky sees the house, rickety and wooden, before he hears the sound, a rhythmic _thud thud thud_. There are no lights on in the house, but he wouldn’t expect them at this time. The sound is curious though, so he heads in that direction.

He approaches it carefully, slipping through the trees from one shadow to the next until he finds the source of the noise. The tension leaves him at the sight and he leans back against a tree to watch.

As much tension as there is in the bowstring, there seems to be next to none in the archer. Bucky’s not sure he’s ever seen Clint so completely in his element before.

Clint pulls an arrow from the quiver hanging at his hip, nocks it, draws the string back to his chin, aims and releases all in one swift, smooth movement, the muscles of his arms and back flowing along familiar patterns under his t-shirt. Bucky watches them ripple. The arousal isn’t as fiery and immediate as before, it’s a low thrill, more smoulder than inferno, but still intense.

Nock. Draw. Aim. Release. Bucky can feel his breathing settling into the rhythm.

On the distant tree the arrows are forming concentric circles and Bucky would bet if he got a tape measure, every arrow would be equidistant around every circumference.

It’s hypnotic, watching Clint, relaxing and enervating all at the same time. So much strength weighed against so much control. Bucky’s aware that this is not a sight many people get to see, a sight that fewer people live to remember.

He folds his arms, to keep from reaching out. There’s a part of him that wants to interrupt, to cross over and pull Clint’s attention onto him so that all that focus and concentration is Bucky’s. But he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to break the movement. A breeze is ruffling Clint’s hair, making it more of a mess than ever, and Bucky watches it, watches him and enjoys the anticipation tingling through him.

Clint runs out of arrows. He doesn’t reach to find an empty quiver – he’s been keeping track it seems – just sighs, surveys his handiwork and heads to recover the arrows. There’s a slump in his shoulders and a shuffle to his walk that Bucky doesn’t think would be there if he knew he was being watched. He looks tired, dragged down by something, and Bucky’s not sure how to help.

When Clint starts heading back, his quiver full again, Bucky is waiting for him, standing exactly where he had been standing as he shot.

The smile that spreads on Clint’s face is tired, but genuinely happy to see Bucky, soft around the edges and a little bit goofy. It’s honest and no one’s been that glad to see Bucky since Steve found him in Afghanistan. He can’t keep himself from returning it, he doesn’t want to, and Clint’s smile grows.

Clint looks even more tired from the front, worse than when Bucky had seen him in Istanbul or Seoul.

“What’s going on? You look like shit,” Bucky says. Clint laughs, abrupt as a gunshot in the still wood.

“You’re such a charmer, Barnes,” he replies. “Nothing’s up. It’s just been a long few months.” His gaze slips away to look into the trees. “Been busy.” He follows up his statement with a yawn big enough to swallow a whole chicken in one gulp.

“Anything I need to worry about?” Bucky asks, trying to keep it light.

“Is that Bucky asking or Agent Barnes?” Clint asks. Bucky doesn’t think it’s meant as an accusation, but it still feels a bit like one.

“Both,” Bucky replies. “You can’t go on like this.” Clint laughs again.

“Funny you should say that,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate. “You don’t need to worry. At least, you probably don’t. I think.”

“You’re not making a whole lotta sense there, Hawkeye.”

“Don’t worry,” Clint says more decisively. “We’ve got it covered. There’s a plan. Nothing bad, I swear.”

“What plan?” Bucky asks and Clint shifts uncomfortably.

“I don’t- It might not work,” he says with a sigh. “And if it does…”

“You’re really fillin’ me with confidence,” Bucky tells him. He reaches out to rest a hand on Clint’s shoulder and Clint starts and looks at him.

“It’s Nat’s plan, so you don’t have to worry,” Clint says with a small smile. “And I think, when it’s done, you’ll like it. I mean… I hope you do. Maybe you won’t. Aw… I’m too tired for this conversation.”

“Then why are you out shooting arrows at four in the morning?” Bucky asks, letting the plan drop in spite of himself.

“Still on DRC time,” Clint says. “And there’s not much point adjusting when we’re-“ he cuts himself off, but Bucky can fill in the blanks.

“How long are you here for?” Bucky asks. Clint yawns again. The dawn chorus is starting up around them.

“Leaving Monday morning, early.”

“Then you need more sleep,” Bucky tells him firmly. Conversations about plans, and any other ideas Bucky had can wait until tomorrow. He prefers his partners conscious, and snoring isn’t exactly on his list of turn-ons. He slips his hand from Clint’s shoulder around his back and pulls him towards the house.

“I didn’t ask you to come just to fall asleep on you,” Clint protests, but he doesn’t put up more than a token resistance.

“I just drove seven hours straight,” Bucky points out. “Pretty sure I’ll be fallin’ asleep on you.” He’s not as tired as he makes it sound, but he could definitely sleep.

They end up leaning on each other as they walk back to the rundown house, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders

The inside of the house is nicer than it looks on the outside, but it’s still a little dog-eared around the edges. Lived in, his ma would call it. It feels more like a home than he’d expected. There’s a blanket on the sofa and coats piled by the door.

Clint unbuckles his quiver and rests it against the wall in a place with scuff marks that imply it lives there quite often. Then he looks over at Bucky with that same surprised smile from earlier, like he can’t quite believe that Bucky responded to the summons he sent. Like Bucky’s made his whole week just by showing up.

“Guess I didn’t say a proper hello,” Bucky says, his voice a little rough, and steps forwards, reaching up to cup Clint’s jaw with his hand. They melt into the kiss, and he can feel the awe that he saw in Clint’s expression. It’s lazy and quiet. They’ve never quite kissed like this before, like it really means something. Hot, but not leading anywhere, kissing not as a challenge or a flirtation but just to express something. It sends Bucky’s heart pounding in his chest. It’s familiar, more about affirmation than exploration.

They pull away eventually, Clint’s hands at Bucky’s waist. He sighs.

Neither of them says that they missed each other, that feels like too far, too dangerous a thing to say, but Bucky knows it must be obvious in the way he’s touching Clint’s skin and the way he’s looking at him.

Clint takes his hand, before starting to move.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says back over his shoulder.

When they get to the bedroom, Bucky start unbuckling his weapons, one by one, he doesn’t notice that Clint’s helping until he reaches for one and realises it’s not there. He pauses for a moment and watches Clint’s fingers slide a strap through a buckle and pull a holster off from round his thigh.

Clint lays it down on the dresser next to the others gently as Bucky pulls off the last strap, unfastening his hunting knife from his hip.

Clint automatically lets Bucky take the side of the bed nearest the door, walking around to the other side to climb in, still mostly dressed.

“Hearing aids,” Bucky says and Clint snuffles at him. He sighs and climbs onto the bed himself, reaching out to pull the hearing aids free from Clint’s ears and set them on the nightstand. He signs ‘goodnight’ while Clint’s still looking at him then tucks himself into bed as well.

*

He wakes up tangled in arms and legs with a nose stuck into his armpit. It’s bizarrely comfortable, even if his leg is starting to go to sleep, and he doesn’t feel the tension he thought he would at waking up with someone weighing him down. He doesn’t really want to move.

But his stomach reminds him that he hasn’t eaten in – he checks the clock – seventeen hours.

He gets some grumbling protests as he disentangles himself, but Clint’s sleeping so deeply that he barely stirs. As he pushes himself out of bed, he gives in to the domesticity of the moment and leans down to brush his lips over Clint’s forehead.

The feeling extends throughout the weekend, from making breakfast and watching Clint pour out coffee so strong it should be banned under the Geneva Convention, to learning how to fold themselves against each other on the sofa, until they find the way their bodies fit together without any elbows ending up in places they shouldn’t.

Clint insists Bucky try archery, and manhandles him into position with a lot more groping than Bucky thinks is strictly necessary, not that he’s complaining. He’s not sure his ass is an integral part of his archery stance, though.

*

Bucky with a bow in his hand is the best idea Clint has ever had, bar none. It’s everything he likes all in one place, and he’s having to work really hard not just to say ‘fuck it’ and cancel the lesson in favour of pushing Bucky up against a tree and having his wicked way with him. He’s about to do just that when Bucky holds out the bow for him.

“Show me how it’s done, then,” Bucky tells him.

“You’ve already seen,” Clint points out, but he takes the bow anyway.

“Show me again,” Bucky says. “I enjoyed watching last time.” His voice makes Clint’s throat run dry.

“Sure,” Clint says.

“Bu-ut,” Bucky says, smirking. “This time, I get to see if I can distract you.” His smile is wicked, lighting up his eyes, and Clint knows where this is going.

“I never miss,” he reminds him.

“So you say. Then why not let me try, since I’m only going to fail.” Clint looks him up and down and considers the smile and the cocky way he’s holding his head.

“No touching,” he says finally, taking up his stance again. “I’m not having you cheat by grabbing the bow string or something.” Bucky affects innocent horror at the very idea, but Clint doesn’t relent.

“Fine, no touching.”

Clint lines up his shot and Bucky slots himself against his back, not quite touching, but close enough that Clint can feel him.

By rights this should be easy. Clint’s shot in more distracting conditions than this, under fire by machine guns, while riding a horse bareback around a big top surrounded by a noisy audience. He’s shot arrows while drunk, concussed, and with his hand in a cast. Bucky’s heat against his back shouldn’t be an issue. But the way his breath moves over Clint’s neck makes Clint’s chest tighten.

Then Bucky starts talking, low, filthy and secretive, about Clint’s arms, his body, and a thousand other things.

Clint focuses on the target, on his breathing, on everything but Bucky’s voice whispering in his ear. Breathe in, breathe out, release. He lets the arrow fly and it lands exactly where it’s supposed to.

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, Barnes,” he says, proud of how steady his voice is. “But you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

Clint manages two more arrows and it gets easier to concentrate as he gets into his flow. Bucky’s voice fades into the background hum and Clint manages to shut him out. Until he’s not there anymore.

The sudden cold breeze against his back alerts him to Bucky’s movement and he resists the urge to look around for him. He releases another arrow and Bucky walks just into the edge of his sight.

“Giving up?” Clint asks, nocking the next. Bucky doesn’t answer, just reaches down and pulls off his shirt, revealing a whole lot of skin and muscle, right when Clint’s hands are too full to appreciate it.

Luckily, he can shoot arrows without looking, so he does.

Bucky leans back against a tree in a way that is probably illegal in some states and smiles. Clint tries to look supremely unconcerned, but he can’t drag his eyes away.

It ends up in a draw, in the end. Clint doesn’t miss, but Bucky does distract him from his bow and gets to fulfil a lot of the suggestions he was making earlier right up against the tree. No one really cares, although it turns out that tree bark isn’t very comfortable.

*

Clint talks incessantly as they drink their coffee in the darkest hours of Monday morning. He has places to go and people to kill, no doubt, and for all his words, he’s not offering any explanations. Bucky lets him talk, just watches him, trying to work out what’s going on.

He waits until Clint pauses for breath before setting down his mug and reaching out to grab Clint’s face between his hands and pull him in for a rough kiss. It doesn’t last long before he pulls him away again, just far enough that he can see him clearly.

“Don’t do anythin’ stupid,” he says, though he knows it’s a lost cause. Clint’s words seem to have crumbled. He meets Bucky’s gaze firmly.

“I probably won’t be in touch for a while,” he says. “And next time you see me, things might be a bit… different.”

“You’re sounding like you’re planning something stupid,” Bucky warns. Clint shrugs.

“I think it might be one of my less stupid actions, actually,” he says. “Just… I liked this weekend. It was good.” Bucky murmurs an agreement. “If I could do this, have this like this, y’know. I think I’d want… It would be nice, don’t you think?” It’s a tangled mess of a question, but Bucky manages to work it out.

“Yeah, it would,” he says. Clint smiles at him and pushes forwards to kiss him again.

“Right then,” he says, looking suddenly awake. “Time to go.”

He pulls away and heads for the door, but pauses halfway to turn back, the smile falling from his face.

“Watch your back,” he says. “I mean obviously, but, be careful.” It feels like there’s more meaning there than Clint’s giving away. “Be careful who you trust and who you turn your back on,” he goes on. “Not every SHIELD agent is a good guy.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, that sounds like Clint knows something about what he and Steve have been piecing their way through in his apartment, but before he can ask, Clint turns again and is out the door, leaving Bucky in an empty house with two empty mugs to wash up.

When he gets back to Washington, Steve buys him breakfast and doesn’t ask where he’s been. Everything feels tangled up again, and any face in the corridors of the Triskelion could be an enemy.

*


	11. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky finally get a chance to take part in a mission against the arms dealers, though there are traitors in their midst. Meanwhile, not too far away, Natasha and Clint's plan enters its final stage.

The Triskelion has never been Bucky’s favourite place. He always feels he iss being monitored. The fisheye cameras that dot the ceiling at carefully designated intervals are lying in wait for him. Although there’s a certain level of reassurance in that too, if he is still programmed underneath it all, if he snaps, then there’s someone watching him.

He’d been getting used to it, though. Not the desk and the office chair, which both feel like they belong to someone else, another Bucky in another universe, but the feeling of belonging. He’d been adjusting to the idea of a team again, not one forged in blood and brotherhood like the army, but a team nonetheless.

But the inconsistencies, the leaks, the suspicion and that last minute comment from Clint have been slowly cracking the illusion. The feeling has been lost, twisted into paranoia and distrust. Him and Steve against the world again, that’s where he is. He tries not to think that he’s keeping secrets from Steve.

Secrets in the form of remembered touches on his skin and the feeling of his heart beating double-time in his chest when he remembers a smile. He’s had to admit to himself what it means. It’s not an infatuation, it’s not a crush, it’s love, plain and simple. He trusts Hawkeye more than he trusts anyone other than Steve at this point in time. He’s slotted into place behind Bucky’s ribs. Bucky’s not sure whether it’s Clint or a part of himself that he’d lost before, but he feels more like _him_ again, and less like the thing that HYDRA made him. He’ll never be the same, he’s reforged himself from scavenged pieces, but he feels more like a whole person. It’s not all about the mission and it’s not all about revenge.

He feels alive, like he’s got his head above the waves again. But he doesn’t know how long for.

Now Clint’s gone too. Looking back, that weekend is a goodbye. The look in Clint’s eyes as he was leaving was the look of someone going to a place where they didn’t know if they’d come back. Bucky’s seen it before, in different eyes. But he doesn’t know where Clint is, couldn’t help him even if he did.

The idea that Clint’s out there, possibly – probably – in trouble, and Bucky’s not doing anything is driving him crazy. The idea that there’s a double agent in SHIELD is driving him crazy. He’s looking at everyone in the corridors, trying to assess their stance, their walk, the way they look at him. Who is hiding HYDRA behind their expression, who is just another SHIELD agent? In the western films, there were always good guys and bad guys, easy to identify, but life isn’t a movie, and the bad guys don’t wear black hats.

The frustration overcomes him and he stands up abruptly, intending to go to the shooting range. The paperwork isn’t going anywhere and Bucky needs the rhythm of shooting to pound the thoughts out of his mind.

Before he can reach the elevator, a junior agent jogs up. She’s out of breath and looks intimidated just looking at him. Her eyes flicker down to his left hand again and again until he realises it’s clenched into a fist.

Bucky loosens his hand and waits for her to speak. She blinks for a moment before realising that he’s not going to talk.

“Agent Barnes,” she says. Waiting for acknowledgement he doesn’t give. “Agent Coulson wants to see you in his office.” Bucky waits to see if any more information will be forthcoming. It’s not. She looks at him with the air of a slightly disappointed puppy. The arms of her SHIELD jacket are too long, pulled down over her hands with some inner insecurity. He wonders if she’s HYDRA. She doesn’t look like a threat, but what does a threat look like? Maybe one day he’ll shoot her right between her big brown eyes.

She must see something shift in his expression because suddenly she looks alarmed, shifting from foot to foot like she wants to run.

Bucky turns quickly and walks away. Maybe she’s HYDRA, maybe she’s not. He doesn’t know; he can’t know. He doesn’t even know if there’s only one double agent in SHIELD or if there are more. Steve’s right, they can’t assume the whole barrel’s rotten, but there’s a difference between optimism and precaution, they’re not mutually exclusive. The last time Bucky felt optimistic, he didn’t even know HYDRA existed.

Coulson’s office is three floors up and he takes the stairs, unwilling to be trapped in an elevator without backup. He’s pretty sure he could take whatever they can throw at him, but there’s no need to test it. Not today.

It’s only when he gets to Coulson’s door that he thinks to wonder why he’s there.

Steve is already waiting inside, looking tense, but calm. He’s looked tense for weeks though, so there’s no change there. The suspicion is getting to him as much as it is to Bucky, more perhaps, because Bucky’s always looked for hidden meanings in what people say, while Steve’s the sort of person who says what he means and expects everyone else to do the same.

“Ah, Agent Barnes. I hope you have a bag packed. I’m afraid I’m sending you and Agent Rogers to London.”

Bucky’s first, worried thought is Clint. London is in a similar time zone to the DRC. That could be where he was heading. He’s not sure how he’ll handle a direct opposition if it comes up again. Or rather, he is sure, and that's the problem. He's not ready to make that choice, ev

He looks at Steve, who shakes his head imperceptibly. Bucky breathes easily although there should be no way that Steve knows what he’s thinking. It seems Steve has an idea though, if the look on his face is anything to go by.

Clint doesn’t have to be in London. There are dozens of countries in similar time zones. London is no more likely than any other.

“We have a lead on the arms ring,” Coulson says and the last of Bucky’s concern fades. The breath that had been momentarily stuck in his throat is released. Not Clint, then. “We recently learnt about a facility in London where a databank exists, a concealed base. The information on their servers could provide vital intelligence about the organisation as well as their associates.”

“Like HYDRA,” Steve says, glancing at Bucky again, although Bucky had already made the link on his own.

“It seems likely,” Coulson says. He’s not committing to anything, but his expression is significant.

“An infiltration job,” Bucky says. It’s been awhile since he’s done one of those. He’ll have to wear the flesh glove again, but he’s good at not being noticed if he doesn’t want to be.

“Not exactly.” Coulson’s mouth twists slightly and Bucky knows they’ve got to the catch. “The intel picked up also indicates that they are arranging to sell an experimental weapon to a terrorist cell. From the description, it could cause untold damage and kill thousands of people. The sale is due to go ahead in three days’ time.”

“That complicates things,” Steve says. “What’s the plan?”

“STRIKE is being mobilised,” Coulson tells them. “We have a team in the area, led by Agent Rumlow, you may have met him before. He’s one of our best.”

Bucky remembers the name and it sticks to a face in his mind, a face he has walked past in corridors sometimes. A man who walks with the swagger of someone who is good at what he does.

“His mission, and that of his team, is to find and secure the weapon along with any plans for it. Given the imminent threat to civilians, that mission has to take priority. However, we know from experience that the organisation has failsafes in place to destroy any data in the case of attack. As soon as the STRIKE team makes their move, someone will be sent to destroy the servers. So far this has happened at every such base we have learnt about.

“Your job is to stop that from happening.” Coulson takes a deep breath. “Recover the data using this.” He pushes a heavy duty, armoured hard drive across the table at them. “It should hold all the information we need and it’s got inbuilt decryption and hacking software.”

“And STRIKE are OK with us wading into their mission?” Bucky asks. From what he’s heard, STRIKE tend to like to keep to themselves.

“There was a training accident recently, the STRIKE team has four members temporarily out of action, that’s where you two come in. I managed to pull some strings.”

“Who’s filling the other two spots?” Steve asks. Coulson winces slightly, if Bucky hadn’t been watching his face so closely, he wouldn’t have caught it.

“There were two old members of Rumlow’s team in the area and he asked for them,” Coulson says, which isn’t an answer.

“Who are they?”

“Agents Parker and Rodriguez,” Coulson says. Bucky groans inwardly and doesn’t bother to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Of course it’s those two. Who else would it be?

“Do the STRIKE team know about our mission?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Coulson says. “You’re aware there have been certain lapses in security recently.”

“We’ve noticed that SHIELD’s maybe not as secure as you’d like us to think,” Steve agrees. Coulson nods, but doesn’t flinch away from Steve’s hard look.

“Because of that, this mission is need to know only.”

“You think that one of the STRIKE team is dirty,” Bucky says. Coulson looks at him steadily.

“Every member of the STRIKE team has been thoroughly vetted and assessed. They are our best agents,” he says.

“But one of them’s not really your agent,” Steve says.

“That seems likely,” Coulson says. “This mission may get complicated.”

“And if we work out who the traitor is?” Bucky asks.

“Take whatever action is necessary to complete the mission,” Coulson says. Bucky nods. Steve doesn’t seem happy, but Bucky’s grateful. It feels good to have a direction to go in again. He’s pretty sure Coulson’s on the right side, unless he’s playing a very long game.

“You’re due on a quinjet in half an hour,” Coulson says. “I suggest you gather your things and study the plans I’ve sent to your tablets.

They stand up, Bucky pushing himself up as lazily as he can manage before giving Coulson a little salute and heading for the door.

“Steve, Bucky,” Agent Coulson says as they reach the door. They turn back. “Watch each other’s backs.”

“We always do,” Steve tells him with a grim smile before stepping out of the door.

*

When they get to London, Bucky doesn’t exactly get to see Big Ben, or the palace of Westminster, whatever the hell it’s called. When he mentions it, Steve points out that they’re not here for sight-seeing, no not even Buckingham Palace. Pity, though. He thinks about postcards and souvenirs. He should buy something, if he gets a minute, seeing as he’s in town.

He does see a red bus or twelve, though, so there’s that.

SHIELD’S London HQ is in a building that looks more like it should be a museum. Compared to the Triskelion it looks almost quaint.

They’re greeted at the door by a woman wearing high heels and an efficient attitude, her accent so British you could cut steak with her vowels. She’s definitely the type who doesn’t take shit from anyone, but she’s nice enough.

Bucky’s no more comfortable in this building than he is back in the Triskelion anymore, and he can tell from the fact that Steve hasn’t dropped his game face since they walked through the door that he has exactly the same misgivings. They’re about to walk into a room full of people, one of whom is a suspected traitor. It’s not a comfortable thing to know. There are so many aspects of the job that require them to trust other people, and it’s impossible to guard your back when you’re surrounded.

But he and Steve are watching each other’s backs, so maybe they’ll get through.

They go to the locker rooms to change into their tactical gear. They’re going to be kitted out like all the other STRIKE agents for this one. Bucky’s never actually worn the SHIELD logo before. His missions have always relied on him being, not undercover but at least unnoticeable. So zipping up the jacket with the SHIELD eagle emblazoned on the sleeve feels like stepping into someone else’s skin. It’s as much a disguise as plain clothes would be. He zips it up almost on autopilot. It’s similar to what he wore in the army, and with HYDRA, and it’s as if barely a day has passed since he last wore this stuff. It fits him like he was made for it.

Steve hasn’t worn it before, Bucky doesn’t think, but he doesn’t offer to help, he knows Steve would only refuse and bristle at the implication that he can’t handle his own clothing. Some things never change and Steve’s damned pride is one of them.

He glances at himself in the mirror on the way out, his helmet in one hand. He looks himself in the eye. There are no flashbacks, no memories rush up on him. There’s just him, dressed in black, glaring at himself.

Bucky sets his shoulders and gets his game face on. He has to be one hundred percent for this. Take it one step at a time. First the briefing, with Rumlow and the team, then the mission. Keep his eyes open and his head clear and don’t turn his back to anyone.

They step into the briefing room to find it full of people dressed identically. Parker is nearby and she steps forward, looking comfortable in her gear.

“Barnes, Rogers,” she says. “I wasn’t expecting you. This isn’t really your thing.”

Steve steps up beside Bucky so their shoulders are almost touching, a solid wall that towers over her.

“We have very varied resumes,” Steve says. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

“Of course,” she says, in a tone that says the opposite. Before Bucky can comment, the door opens and Rumlow walks in. All the conversation ceases and everyone turns to him.

It’s clear that Bucky and Steve are the outsiders here, the others are a well-oiled team, even Parker and Rodriguez fitting in like they had never left. Rumlow brings up the schematics of the base and they run through it easily, no questions needed.

SOP would be to cut the base’s power before entry, leave the enemy in the dark, with no way to find them, but some clever person realised that this might be a problem and the place has its own generators, three of them, including a separate one for the computer room, and they’re all inside. This makes things more difficult.

There are three entrances and Rumlow splits the party into three teams. Team A’s job is to enter through the east door, then head for the generators and shut them down, that’s Bucky’s team. Team B is to head for the main control room, where the cameras are routed along with the master controls for all the doors in the compound (except the one for the computer room door, Bucky’s starting to see a pattern). Steve’s on that team, entering through the north-west door. Team C is the main body of the team, led by Rumlow, and they’re going after the weapon, starting at the south door.

It’s a solid plan. If Bucky were actually concerned with the mission that everyone else is worrying about he would be all for it. But the weapon isn’t his mission and the east door is the furthest from the computer room. He’s also not that fond of him and Steve having to work in different teams. He’s uncomfortable enough without not being able to watch Steve’s idiot back.

But he doesn’t have a good reason to object. He’ll just have to wait for his chance and then separate from the rest of his team and hope that Steve manages to ditch his too.

*

If Clint ever builds a secret base, he’s sure as shit not building it in an old sewer. Seriously, what’s wrong with people? International arms dealing must pay enough for them to afford somewhere a bit nicer than a slimy labyrinth of concrete that seems to be leaking Thames water. At least, Clint hopes it’s Thames water. He doesn’t like to think what else it might be.

So, if Clint ever has a few billion to spare and starts an intrepid new life as an evil mastermind, his base is not going to be in a sewer.

“ _Are you in position?_ ” Nat asks.

“Yep,” he replies, dropping down into the main control room and tapping the guy sitting there on the shoulder. He turns and Clint punches him in the face. He goes straight down. A few zip ties and a strip of duct tape later and he’s tied up, leaving the security room, its screens and its many, many buttons for Clint to play with. Clint surveys his new kingdom with a grin. “Control room under control,” he tells Nat and sits down in the recently vacated chair to work out which button does what. Hopefully it’s logical.

He sees Nat appear on the screen and he searches for the switches marked with the door numbers. The one she’s standing next to is clearly marked and he checks the cameras again. “Looks like you’ve got a couple of friends on the other side.” He flicks the switch to open the door and watches her dispatch the two men with her usual efficiency before dragging them into a side room and shutting them in. They are trying to be subtle about this, after all. They have to make sure no one gets a chance to get at the computer.

He keeps the way to the computer room clear for her.

The guard comes round and Clint doesn’t even bother looking at him, just picks up the guard’s own gun and points it at him, still watching Nat’s progress.

“I’m blocking off the exits behind you,” he tells her. “You should be clear all the way now.”

There’s a muffled noise from the bound guard and Clint turns to raise a finger to his lips.

Nat makes it to the computer room door, which is on a different security system that Clint, unfortunately, has no access to, which means he can’t help with this bit. His job is just to make sure no one interrupts her.

A guy’s heading for one of the nearby doors. He punches in the code and steps back. The door doesn’t open. He tries again. Nothing happens. And a third time. Clint watches with growing amusement.

“Do you think he’s going to try again?” he asks the guard, but doesn’t get a reply, probably because the man’s still got duct tape over his mouth. “I mean, three times is probably the maximum, right. Twice to check it’s actually not working, third time because you’re annoyed, but…” The guy tries the code again. Clint rolls his eyes. “I’m guessing they don’t hire based on intelligence.”

“ _Are you talking to me?_ ” Nat asks, looking up towards the camera.

“Naw, I’m talking to-“ Clint looks at the guard’s name badge- “Bill here. Some idiot’s trying to get through a locked door.”

“ _Right_ ,” she says and goes back to what she’s doing.

Finally the little man on the screen seems to realise that the door isn’t actually working and decides to make a rather angry looking phone call, if the way his fingers are hitting the screen is anything to go by.

The phone next to Clint rings and he sighs, because of course it would be him that idiot man is calling.

“Hello,” he says in answer, trying to sound vaguely British and hoping it sticks.

“Bill! Get this bloody door open,” angry idiot demands.

“Is that the door on corridor C?” Clint asks, aiming for bored and sick of your shit. Bill looks like the kind of guy who has an apathetic approach to his job.

“Yes it’s the door on corridor bloody C! Can’t you see me on the monitor?” Clint looks to see the guy waving furiously at the camera. He waves back.

“Oh yeah, there you are. We’re having problems with that door. Keeps malfunctioning,” Clint says, trying and succeeding at sounding supremely unconcerned.

“Have you called maintenance?”

“Yup,” Clint replies. “They said they’d get to it. You know what they’re like.”

Angry man grunts and on the screen Clint can see him glaring at the door as though it has personally offended him.

“Just tell maintenance it’s top priority.”

“Sure thing,” Clint says and hangs up. He watches the man glare some more and then stalk away.

“Well that was easy,” he says, crossing his arms behind his head and propping his feet up on the console.

Nat makes it through the final door without any other issues and heads for the computer they want.

She’s just sat down at the desk when something appears on the cameras – the one by the external door. Clint checks and sure enough it’s the same on all three entrances.

“Uh, Nat,” he says, sitting up again. “Looks like we’re not the only ones who wanted to cross this place off our bucket list.”

“ _Who?_ ” she asks.

“SHIELD from the look of them,” Clint says, which might very well mean HYDRA too, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. “They’re about to knock on the door.” There’s no knowing if this SHIELD party is here to help or hinder them, and to be honest, no matter whether these are the white hats or the black, neither side is very fond of him and Nat. They have that effect on people. He watches one of the SHIELD agents, dressed in the full black tactical gear and goggles of the STRIKE team, place a charge on the door at the same time as two others do the same thing to the other doors. So much for subtle, he supposes. “They’re going to knock loudly,” he adds.

“ _Then I have to work quickly_ ,” Nat says. She’s not kidding. As soon as they blow those doors everyone’s going to be heading for the computer. The information is the most valuable thing in this base. The locals will want it destroyed, as will any HYDRA agents among the new arrivals. SHIELD will be wanting it intact, though, just like him and Nat. But when you can’t tell one team from the other, the only hands worth trusting are your own.

“ _Can you keep them occupied?_ ” Nat asks. Clint looks at the switches and cameras. He essentially has control over everything in the base that’s not within the computer room, at the moment at least. If SHIELD are bringing the explosions, locking a few doors isn’t going to keep them out, but it might slow them down. He cracks his fingers and rolls his neck.

“I can give it a go.”

First thing’s first, they need to meet some resistance.

His hand hovers over the big red button that should, if Clint’s reading this correctly, sound the alarm. His mind sticks on a ‘what if’, but Bucky and Rogers aren’t on a STRIKE team. It’s not him out there that Clint’s about to send people to shoot at. Nat's probably going to get a few people heading her way, though. She can handle it. He has to believe she can handle it.

He hits the button. Lights blare and the klaxon sounds, all the secure doors deadlock… which Clint was not expecting. Nat’s stuck in the computer room and he’s stuck where he is too.

But hopefully, everyone else is locked out.

They’ll figure it out, they always do.

On the screen all the little people pour out of their rooms to their battle stations. The base shakes with the blasts of the doors.

Now, he just has to herd everyone where he wants them, so that Nat has enough time to get the data and he has enough time to work out how to get her the hell out of there. Extraction plans are for wimps... or so he keeps telling himself.

*

Bucky’s not concerned for his life. He’s pretty sure HYDRA still wants him alive. They spent a lot of money making him into their perfect little monster, they’re going to want their investment back. Steve, on the other hand…

As soon as they blow the doors, something’s already wrong. Someone must have picked them up on the security cameras, because the place is already on high alert. The klaxon is blaring and the lights are flashing red, plunging the world into blood again and again.

He’s been in too many fire fights to be scared, although having bullets flying towards you is never the most comfortable experience in the world. He sticks to the back, where he can’t be accidentally hit by ‘friendly’ fire, and picks off opponents one by one, between the heads of his team mates. He keeps an eye out for an opening but none comes.

In fact, the feeling of unease gets worse. They’re taking the path of least resistance, saving their explosives for the generators, when they get there, but it feels like the base has a mind of its own and it’s corralling them into positions, filtering the people in the base towards them and keeping them at arm’s length, away from anything that could cause issues.

Every route he passes that could lead to the computer room is cut off by a sealed door. It’s as though someone is deliberately keeping him out. In his mental map of the base, picked up from the schematics, he can see their route, not in a straight line, but curving around itself, never quite getting where they need to be. This definitely isn’t a coincidence.

He spots an open door, heads for it, and it shuts in his face.

Definitely not coincidence. Someone is in the control room, playing with them like lab rats in a maze. He looks up at the camera nearby and considers his options. He imagines that the other two teams are being led on similar chases. Without the generators off or the control room under their control, whoever it is can do whatever they want.

But there’s got to be a way to get around their little game.

He ducks behind a corner to reload his gun and happens to glance upwards to see, not a security camera, but an air vent.

*

It’s entertaining, to send the SHIELD team running into bad guys at every turn. Clint has to admit that he’s sort of impressed. They work well together and they’re clearly the professionals in this situation. The base staff are putting up a valiant fight, but they’re not going to make it. He might feel sorry for them if he didn’t know exactly what it was they do. But he does, and it’s not like his job leaves him much room to be squeamish these days.

From what he can tell, watching them, the three teams are heading for three different locations. One of them trying to head right for his own location, another is going after the power source, and the third…

Clint frowns at his screens. He could have sworn that there were more operatives in the third team than that. He can only count six heads now, when there were twelve before.

He searches the screens frantically, trying to find the mislaid SHIELD agents, and eventually discovers them three corridors away from their previous position, heading in what must be the straightest route to the computer room.

He throws every obstacle he can at them.

Sooner or later someone’s going to realise what’s going on.

It seems like someone already has. One member of the team heading for the control room has knelt down next to a door panel.

“I’m about to be relocated,” he says to Nat. “Mind if I join you?”

“ _The more the merrier_ ,” she says, although she sounds distracted. " _I've already got some friends outside the door._ " He checks and almost laughs. There's obviously a detail from the base whose job it is to guard the computer room if the alarm goes, and probably wipe it if they get the signal. They just haven't bothered to look inside before taking up their positions. It's as though Natasha's got her own honour guard.

"See you soon."

*

Instructions and reports are coming thick and fast over the team comm link and the Steve’s voice cuts through everything.

“ _We’re being led around by the nose_ ,” he says, irritation clear in his voice. Bucky would applaud if he wasn’t stuffed in an air vent that is barely big enough for his shoulders. “ _Can anyone get this door open?_ ”

There are some advantages to being in the vents. There are no cameras, as far as he can tell. And so far all he’s found in the way of security seems to be malfunctioning. It’s clearly Bucky’s lucky day. Now he just needs to work out how to use them to get to the computer room. He knows that someone will be heading down there to wipe the servers as soon as they can. Maybe they already have, but Bucky’s just going to have to take that chance.

The downsides are that the briefing hadn’t contained a vent map, so he’s flying blind, with only his knowledge of roughly where the computer room is to find his way. The only problem being that the vents don’t follow the floor plan, so Bucky’s having to construct a whole new map in his head and hope that he doesn’t take a wrong turning.

“ _We’re approaching the control room_ ,” Steve says. He hasn’t managed to get clear of his team yet, but given what they’re trying to do, maybe access to the main control room is the best plan.

“ _We’re heading for the generator room,_ ” one of Bucky’s group says, immediately followed by Parker’ voice.

“ _Has anyone seen Barnes?_ ” she asks.

“ _Bucky?_ ” Steve asks.

“I’m fine,” he whispers. “I got separated from the group. These corridors are like a labyrinth.”

“ _Don’t get too lost_ ,” Rumlow says. “ _I don’t want to have to explain to the boss that we lost you_.”

Bucky just grunts back and looks down through the next vent he comes to. All he sees is another identical corridor.

*

SHIELD is getting a little too close for comfort. Clint packs up his things and slings his bow onto his back.

Bill is still in the corner, trussed up like a thanksgiving turkey and Clint gives him a little wave as he pushes the chair over until it’s under the vent.

“I hate to leave like this, but these guys aren't my biggest fans,” he says. He takes one last look at the screens. The off shoot of the third party is closing in on the computer room. He’s going to have to move fast if he’s going to watch Nat’s back.

“Gotta go, Bill,” he says. “Thanks for letting me have a play.”

He hoists himself up into the air vent and slots the cover back into place as best he can, before crawling away.

*

Bucky comes to a crossroads and catches sight of a flicker of shadow somewhere to his right, but when he turns there’s nothing there, but the sound of scratching. Probably just rats. It wouldn’t surprise him, this place looks like the kind of place rats might live.

“ _Outside the control room_ ,” Steve reports as Bucky crawls straight forward. The computer room should be in this direction.

“ _We’re in_ ,” Steve says and then pauses. “ _I don’t think we’re alone_ ,” he says.

“ _What do you mean?_ ” Rumlow asks.

“ _I mean someone’s already been here. The security guard is tied up in a corner._ ”

Someone else is here. Bucky processes that for a second. There are a lot of people who would not want SHIELD to get their hands on the information on that computer, or on the weapon either, for that matter. He moves faster.

“ _Any idea who it is?_ ” Rumlow asks.

“ _All I can get out of him is that the guy’s male,_ ” Steve says. “ _Which narrows it down to approximately half the population. I’m going to open the route to the generators.”_

*

Clint comes to the difficult bit. And by difficult, he means suicidal. There’s a reason that they’d had Nat break in through the nearly impenetrable door instead of through the vents, and that reason is at the bottom of a rather long drop. A huge fan, spinning so fast it’s a blur. If Clint falls down there, he’s Hawkeye sushi. He’s just got to hope…

The fan slows down, the momentum taking a while to run off as it goes from a grey blur to lines to the stuttering shape of the blades.

The klaxon disappears as well, which must mean that the STRIKE team has made it to the generators.

Now he just has to lower himself down so he doesn’t break all his limbs in the fall. Easy.

*

The end of the alarm is a blessed relief for Bucky’s head, the noise resonates through the ventilation shafts. This also means his team made it to the generators, which will make things easier for everyone. He wonders who else is in the base though, who he’s chasing to the computer room.

He comes to a t-junction and takes the right path. The ventilation shafts are a maze, but this should be the right direction.

*

There are several entrances from the vents into the computer room. Most of them are too small for access, only two are big enough for a grown man. One’s up high, over a maintenance walkway, the other is lower down, in one of the walls behind the server towers. Clint goes the high way, because what other way would he go?

The server room is kept at a balmy twenty degrees, thanks mostly to the ventilation. With the fans off, that’s going to start rising pretty soon. If it gets too high for too long the whole bank will overheat and blow out. There has to be a secondary cooling system, he just hopes it’s up to the job. It would suck to get this close and then have to watch the plan go up in smoke.

“Hey Nat,” he says as he pries open the cover. “I’m coming in. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shoot me.”

" _I'll try my hardest,_ " she says.

The cover opens easily enough and he lowers himself down to the walkway. At the sound of his feet touching the metal, small as it is, Nat looks up. But she doesn’t shoot him, which is nice of her.

“How’s it going?” he asks, pulling off his bow and checking the arrows in the quiver.

“ _Almost finished_ ,” she replies. " _Though the guys outside decided they wanted to say hello a few minutes ago._ " Clint looks at the door and can see the lock still smoking – presumably from Nat securing it. He can hear the banging on the other side, though, and grins. Sucks to have your own security measures used against you.

“Good. They'll be pretty occupied in a minute, though. I think we’re about to have company.” He pulls an arrow from the quiver and crouches down, preparing to draw. He can’t work out specific words or identify what the noise is, but there are definitely people outside the door. “What’s the betting that the guys heading this way are the good guys?” he asks idly.

“ _Probably fifty-fifty,_ ” Nat says. “ _We’ve been kicking over a lot of hornets’ nests recently. The HYDRA agents inside SHIELD don’t want us to get hold of this data. They probably leaked the information about the base deliberately to try and get here before us_.”

“I hate spies,” Clint says with an exaggerated sighs. Nat snorts.

“ _I hope you’re joking, or this has all been a rather complicated exercise in pointlessness_ ,” she says.

“Did I tell you how awesome you are yet today?” Clint asks. “Because I really do owe you for this.” They hear gun shots from outside, shouts, some more gun shots and then just the sound of pounding boots. Sounds like the local thugs didn't put up much of a fight.

“ _I know_ ,” she replies. “ _They’re almost through the door. Be ready, but don’t shoot until we know what we’re dealing with_.”

“Do you think they’d tell us if they were HYDRA if we asked nicely?”

“ _I’m already regretting this plan. You’re terrible at espionage_.”

“Too late now,” Clint says, nocking the arrow and pulling the string back to his chin. “Show time, honey pie.”

“ _Don’t let Barnes hear you call me that,_ ” Nat says, disconnecting her laptop from the servers and closing it over. “ _Done_.”

“Aw… he knows what you and I have is special,” Clint assures her.

Then the door explodes.

The walkway wasn’t built to withstand explosions and it shakes ominously with the vibrations, sending Clint wobbling with it as the blast makes his hearing aids overload. Even if he wanted to get a shot off, it wouldn’t be advisable.

No one looks up as the STRIKE agents enter the room, which is just poor training. Clint’s going to have to have a word with someone about that. No one ever looks up. Sure, it makes his job easier, but it’s just unprofessional. He bets Bucky would have looked up.

There are more STRIKE officers than he would have thought. They surround Nat, guns at the ready, leaving a loose circle around her, enough space that she can’t reach them. Apparently someone taught them something, then. With their positioning and numbers, there’s no way he could take them all out before they got her. He’s not sure they could even manage all of them together. Probably, Nat’s very good at making the impossible look easy.

“Hello boys,” Nat says calmly, her hands raised in surrender, the laptop still sitting behind her. “Can I help you?”

*

Someone else is in the vents.

Bucky looks at the paracord dangling down the shaft, between the blades of the fan below and considers this. There are two possibilities. Either it’s the same person (or an associate of) whoever tied the guard up in the control room. Or, one of the SHIELD team had had their own bright idea before he did. Either way there’s an enemy up here with him, and he doesn’t have the space to manoeuvre easily or use his full strength. It would take effort to even get to his weapons. The vents were not built for a fully grown man, particularly one who’d been shot up with the HYDRA special super soldier serum.

Whoever left the cord knew where they were going, though, and as the server room is below him, it seems likely they were heading there. It’s as good a sign as any that he’s heading in the right direction, so he reaches out and tests the rope, then swings himself off the ledge and heads downwards.

He considers mentioning the rope to Steve, but they haven’t got a private channel, so the information would go out to everyone on the comms. He doesn’t want to give away his position like that. As far as anyone else knows, he’s busy getting lost in the winding corridors somewhere.

When he reaches the fan, squeezing himself between the blades and hoping that no one decides to switch them back on, he realises that although there’s still chatter going on, he hasn’t heard Rumlow’s voice in a while, or Parker, or half of the team, for that matter.

It’s possible that they’re just in a situation where using the comms is more dangerous than useful, or that they’ve hit a place where the signal is deadened by the architecture, but it’s been a while. His hackles are standing on end and all of his instincts are saying that something is definitely not right.

“Steve,” he says in a whisper, just to check.

“ _Buck?_ ” comes back and he lets himself breathe more easily.

“Just checking you hadn’t got yourself shot,” he says.

“ _I’m fine_ ,” Steve assures him. “ _You_.”

“Yeah, I’m good. I think I’m almost where I’m supposed to be.”

“ _Good_ ,” Steve replies. “ _I’ll see you there_.”

*

The little tableau in the server room is still ongoing.

“Cho,” one of the STRIKE team says, another turns his head. “Check the computer.”

“Shouldn’t we just kill her?” the guy who is presumably Cho says. Clint almost shoots him right then, but it’s hardly an admission of guilt. SHIELD kills people too.

“I want to know what she knows and who she’s working for first,” the man in charge says. “Check the computer.”

Cho edges around Nat, who politely moves out of the way, an amused smile on her face at how wide a berth he’s giving her. He opens the laptop again and waits for it to wake up. The air’s so thick with tension you’d need an axe to cut it, but Nat look relaxed.

“She’s been downloading data, sir,” Cho says. “Looks like it’s from server four. Isn’t that the server we’re-“

“That’s enough,” the leader says, cutting the man off before he can say anything more. He then looks back at Nat.

“What do you want with server four?” he asks.

“It’s my lucky number,” Nat says.

“I’d suggest that this isn’t a good time for jokes,” the STRIKE leader says, which shows what he knows. This is clearly the perfect time for jokes. Did you hear the one about the STRIKE operative with a stick up his butt? “Why were you looking at server four?”

“I heard it contained the plot of the next Jack Montgomery novel,” she says. “I’m a huge fan.”

“There are ways of making you talk.”

“Seriously, Nat. Can I just shoot him a little bit?” Clint whispers. She taps the index finger of her right hand against her thumb, which is a decisive no on the shooting front. He supposes it could make things a little awkward in future, but he’s eighty percent sure that the guy’s HYDRA. Although, he supposes that SHIELD might hire douchebags too.

*

Bucky reaches the computer room and he can hear voices through the vent. One of them’s Rumlow, who is definitely not supposed to be there.

Looking down through the slats in the vent grill, there’s a walkway beneath him. It’s made of metal, but if he’s careful he should be able to avoid making too much noise as he drops down.

*

At first Clint dismisses the noise as background interference in his hearing aid, but the vibration that runs through the walkway makes him turn, bow raised, before he even registers it consciously.

A STRIKE agent has dropped down from the vents.

“Aww – that’s my move,” Clint mutters to himself. “Nat. I’ve got company.” He can’t take his eyes off the newcomer, who’s pointing a gun at him with rock steady hands.

“Don’t suppose we could talk about this,” he says to the SHIELD agent, who releases the gun with one hand so he can raise a finger to his lips and point down at what’s going on below.

Great. So this guy’s either a good guy trying to save the day, or he’s a sneaky double agent who doesn’t want to give the game away. All these cross-purposes are giving Clint a headache. Assassination is so much simpler: see target, shoot target, run away. Goddamn Bucky Barnes making his life so much more complicated.

*

Bucky looks up into an arrow head. The threat has him drawing his gun automatically, before he understands exactly what _arrow_ must mean and follows the very familiar arms holding the bow up to the very familiar shoulders and very familiar face.

His gun is aimed right between Clint’s eyes.

Because Clint is here.

Of course Clint is here, the man is incapable of not pushing himself into Bucky’s life at the most awkward moments possible.

There’s a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, because he’s always known something like this would happen, and hoped that it wouldn’t. He’s frozen for a moment, because he’s pointing a gun at Clint’s head, and Clint’s pointing an arrow at him and doesn’t seem to have recognised him.

But how could he, Bucky’s in full tactical gear, including mask. There’s nothing for Clint to recognise but a faceless SHIELD agent. He’s got no reason not to shoot Bucky.

Bucky has to assess the situation. A quick glance down verifies that Black Widow is here too, surrounded by STRIKE agents. A lot of STRIKE agents. Are they here for a genuine reason, or are they all HYDRA? The thought makes Bucky’s blood run cold.

There’s a laptop by the servers. He’s betting it’s the Widow’s as it doesn’t look like SHIELD issue, and that would explain what she’s doing down there.

Is this a payday for them? Clint had been-

Clint mutters something that Bucky can’t make out and can’t reply to either, so he raises a finger to his lips. Clint’s eyes narrow in thought. He wonders what he’s thinking, but Bucky can’t make it out. He’d found it so easy to read him last time they’d seen each other and now they’re standing on opposite sides and it’s like there’s a stranger wearing Clint’s face.

Bucky’s not going to shoot. He knows that. But Clint might, and he never misses.

Why are they here? Has this got something to do with how distracted Clint had been when he had left that morning, why he’d been saying goodbye? They work on commission, so who hired them?

Bucky doesn’t lower his gun as ice cold pools in his stomach. He doesn’t want to think it, but the possibility is clawing at him that maybe this has all been a ploy, since Barcelona. That Clint’s been playing him.

*

Something’s going on below, but Clint’s got a gun pointed at his face, so he’s a little busy. He risks a glance down.

“Destroy the servers,” the STRIKE leader says, “And the laptop. Kill the woman.”

Aw shit. That’s about a clear a sign as they’re going to get. There’s no way SHIELD would let the data on those servers go to waste, which means that Nat’s standing surrounded by snakes and Clint’s got to make his mind up which way to shoot.

“Fucking HYDRA,” he mutters under his breath.

“ _I’ve got this_ ,” Nat says. Clint doesn’t look round, but there’s the sound of gunfire so he hopes she’s right. Damned if he’s going to let her do this alone, though.

Vent guy is probably a good guy, though, so there’s that. Which also means he can’t really shoot the guy, either. There’s the sound of more shooting down below.

Screw it.

Clint lets the arrow fly, aiming for the guy’s gun hand and turns, already pulling a new arrow from his quiver and aiming it in a heartbeat before releasing that one too. STRIKE body armour’s pretty good, but there are gaps if you know what you’re doing. He hits the guy aiming at Nat just in the gap between his shoulder and his vest, the arrow sinks right in, finding his heart, and he goes down.

He registers as he’s loosing the second arrow that the noise his first arrow makes is wrong. When an arrow hits flesh there’s a distinctive sound that Clint can pick up even with his crappy hearing. That’s not the sound that he had heard. It had been a clang of metal on metal.

His head whips back to the SHIELD agent.

“Barnes?” he asks, not sure whether he’s more hopeful that he’s right or that he’s wrong.

Shit, he doesn’t have time for this. Nat’s doing okay, but there’s a guy behind her.

He draws and releases in one swift movement and the arrow buries itself between the vertebrae of the man’s neck. He isn’t getting up anytime soon.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Bucky asks.

“It’s all part of the plan,” Clint assures him, and himself. Technically, sure, this wasn’t supposed to happen, and yeah, it’s got to look bad, but there is a plan. It’s not a completely legal plan, but it might just work – if he and Nat get out of here, lives and data intact. This was supposed to be a quick in and out job where no one realised they were here until they were already gone. They were supposed to be ghosts. Clint has to stop making plans, they only end up screwing him over.

“On the walkway!” someone shouts from below, finally thinking to look up. Clint wants to applaud, but to do that he’d have to let go of his bow, and things are getting a little dangerous.

He has to choose between shooting the guy who’s now taking the steps up to the walkway two at a time, each impact of his feet sending the whole thing wobbling like jell-o, or shooting the guy still on the ground, pointing a gun at Nat.

He goes for the guy aiming at Nat, turning back to aim at their new friend up on the walkway at the exact same time that _another_ STRIKE agent drops from his vent. Seriously, when did vent crawling become so damn popular. Can’t people get their own schtick?

Clint doesn’t have to raise his bow because Bucky’s already aiming a gun at the newcomer.

Huh? That’s not what Clint expected. He’s not sure if this is because of him or because of HYDRA. It’s probably HYDRA.

“Barnes!” the newcomer says. Even through the mask, the voice sounds feminine. The fact that she’s a good foot shorter than Clint himself makes that seem more likely. “Stand down! I will shoot you.”

“Parker,” Bucky says. His voice is the calm sort of deadly that makes Clint’s toes curl. And hey, it’s Parker! Long time no see!

“I knew you weren’t ready for field work,” she says, which frankly is just stupid. Bucky’s a whole lot better at fieldwork than she and that idiot Rodriguez ever were.

The guy from below is thundering up behind her. Clint can’t get a good shot without leaning so far over the edge that he’ll fall down and put himself out of the fight. She and Bucky are in the way, because apparently everyone’s too busy pointing guns at each other to remember the HYDRA agents below.

“Nat?” Clint asks.

“ _I’m fine_ ,” she says, but it sounds like it takes a lot of effort.

*

Of all the times for Parker to choose to bring this up, it had to be here and now. Half the STRIKE team are double agents, the information on those servers – the information he needs to take HYDRA down for good – is about to be destroyed.

“I’m not the bad guy here,” Bucky tells her, but he’s not putting down his gun until she’s dropped hers. He’s pretty sure that she’s wanted to shoot him since before she even met him, so he’s not going to give her a chance if he can.

“ _Bucky?_ ” Steve asks over the comms. “ _What’s going on?_ ”

There’s really no point in secrecy anymore, the shit has well and truly hit the fan.

“Rumlow’s a double agent. And half of his team apparently,” Bucky says.

“Rumlow’s what?” Parker asks. “Barnes has flipped. He’s pointing a gun at me.”

“You’re pointing a gun at him,” Clint says in a not-so-helpful way. “It’s mutual gun pointing.”

“He’s protecting fucking _Hawkeye_ ,” she says, spitting the last word and Bucky remembers that, oh yes, Clint’s a bad guy… technically.

The STRIKE agent Rumlow sent has come up behind Parker now, and Bucky re-aims. He doesn’t like the woman, but she doesn’t deserve to die like this. He’s pretty sure she’s actually on the right side, although explaining the Hawkeye thing might be a small nightmare.

“ _I’m on my way_ ,” Steve says.

“Stand down, Barnes,” Parker repeats. That’s not going to happen. She looks over her shoulder. “Good. Help me take Barnes in.”

“Sorry Sam,” the guy says. “You had to go sticking your nose in, didn’t you?”

“Rodriguez?” Parker turns, her gun dropping slightly. Bucky’s pulling his trigger, but he’s a fraction too late.

The bullet hits her in the temple. She stands for a second, before crumpling to the floor. Bucky nails Rodriguez right between the eyes.

*

“ _Maybe pay attention, rather than watching Barnes’ ass,_ ” Nat says. The strain in her voice makes Clint turn to look below. She’s sitting with her back against one of the smoking servers and it looks like her leg’s bleeding pretty heavily. Clint swears. She’s surrounded by bodies, though.

“You let them shoot you?” he asks, aware that Bucky’s looking too.

“ _It was the best option at the time_ ,” she tells him, which he believes.

“You get them all?” She shakes her head and indicates that whoever it is is behind the servers, hiding from her. Good instincts. Even with one leg, Nat will kill you. It doesn’t look like she’s too mobile right now, though.

“I got it,” he tells her and stands up to get a better view over the servers. He can’t see anybody at first glance. There’s a lot of smoke and shadows around, so he guesses they’re going to have to chat.

“Hi!” he calls out. Bucky grabs him and tries to pull him down, but Clint bats his hands away. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Hawkeye.” He pauses for effect. “This is where you’re supposed to say ‘ _Hi Hawkeye, huge fan. I’m a backstabbing HYDRA bastard. How’s your day going?_ ’”  Bucky is swearing. If Clint had a hand free then he’d pat him on his head because he really needs to chill. All Clint has to do is annoy this guy into giving himself away and then shoot the bastard full of arrows until he’s good and dead. It’s a solid plan. Clint’s very good at being annoying.

He’s constantly scanning the servers for any clue as to where the mystery HYDRA agent is. “Look. How about this: Marco?”

He waits.

“Really? No Polo? Come on! Don’t leave a guy hanging. It’s rude.” He sighs. “You’ve got nowhere to go,” he points out. “Your men are dead. You’re cornered. You can’t stay behind those servers forever.”

“You think those were all my men?” the guy responds – _finally_. “If you’re waiting for Agent Rogers to show up, Agent Barnes, then you’re going to be waiting a long time.” Clint can feel Bucky tense where their bodies are touching down his leg. He doesn’t look down as he grimaces though, he doesn’t need to look to know that Bucky’s expression will have slipped into its glare of blank doom. He really hopes Rogers is alright.

Below, Nat raises a hand and indicates where the voice is coming from. Clint narrows his search.

“Rogers?” he says, forcing himself to laugh. “Oh man. You’re kidding, right? You’ve seen the guy, he’s built like a tank. Something tells me your men are already dead.” No one laughs at the reference, which is just sad. Someone should appreciate his references to classic sci-fi.

“Then I guess we wait to see who wins,” the disembodied voice replies. “Rogers or my men. Not that either would be any good for you, Hawkeye. You’re not getting out of here a free man. It’s a pity. You and the Widow would be good allies to have. I admire your work.”

“Aw shucks, you’re making me blush,” Clint says, deadpan. Nat’s bleeding onto the floor. He can see it. He really needs to hurry this shit along.

“You could always help me.”

There’s a flicker of shadow. It’s not much, but it’s enough. He’s good at seeing things and that movement gives him something to look at, which helps him see the outline of a shadow, which gives him somewhere to aim.

He feels the calm come over him.

“Or I could just shoot you,” he suggests, raising the bow, drawing the string back, smooth as silk.

His breathing’s even, his heart is steady. The world crystallises into him, the bow and the target.

“You might be good, Hawkeye, but even you can’t shoot an arrow around corners.”

“Wanna bet?” he mutters as he releases. His fingers barely move at all, and as the arrow leaves the bow his breath leaves his lungs.

It flies right over the servers, into the dark. He hears a laugh.

“What a waste of a-“ the guy’s voice cuts off with a _thunk_ , the arrow arcing back to hit its target. _That’s_ what an arrow hitting flesh sounds like.

“Sorry?” Clint asks. “You were saying?”

He catches Bucky looking up at him with complete confusion and he just shrugs.

“Boomerang arrow,” he explains. “It comes back. Nat, you okay?”

“ _I think I’ve stopped the bleeding_ ,” she says. “ _But I’m going to need stitches and probably a transfusion._ ”

He hurries down the steps as she struggles to her feet and switches from her whisper over the comms to full volume.

“James,” she calls. She’s listing slightly to one side. “What’s your plan?”

Clint gets to her side, jumping carefully over the soldiers she’d taken down, and scoops a hand under her shoulders, pulling her upright. The fact that she lets him says how bad it is.

He finally looks back at Bucky, who has pulled his helmet off and is running a hand through his hair.

“I have to find Steve,” he says. “Don’t be here when I get back.”

“We’ll be gone,” Nat promises, reaching into her jacket to pull something out – the laptop. She holds it out. “I think this is what you were after.”

Bucky frowns at her, but reaches out to take it.

“Won’t your client be mad?” Nat shrugs, not mentioning that there is no client. Bucky looks to Clint.

“It won’t cause us any problems,” Clint tells him. “Just make sure you give it to someone you trust, okay?” Bucky nods. He looks at Clint like he wants to say something, but he’s casting glances towards the door. He has to go after Steve and they both know it, just like Clint has to make sure Nat gets her leg seen to.

Bucky lunges towards Clint, crushing their mouths together, gripping the back of Clint’s head a bit too hard and pulling him off balance for a second. It’s desperate and quick. Clint wants to say that it’s going to be okay, but he’s still not entirely sure that it will be. Bucky pulls away again, just as quickly, and runs for the door.

“You going to be okay with the vents?” Clint asks, looking down at her tourniquet. Nat just rolls her eyes at him. “Yeah, stupid question. Up we go then.”

*

The London operation is officially a mess. For all they got their hands on the data, it’s coded with levels of encryption that they can’t even scratch the surface of, mostly because they seem to be missing most of the puzzle. It’s clear that whatever they got is only part of a larger body of data and to access it you not only need all the parts, but all the keys as well.

That’s not even mentioning Rumlow and his team.

Coulson’s had to offer explanations to Maria, Director Fury, a member of the World Security Council, Director Carter of the European head office, and all the agents who made it out alive and weren’t found to be secret HYDRA agents. It’s almost certainly going to go down as one of the bigger clusterfucks of the agency’s history.

From what he can tell, 90% of the STRIKE team sent in were HYDRA, or at least loyal to Rumlow rather than SHIELD. He’d had a suspicion about one or two, but never dreamed it was so many. Most of the HYDRA agents are dead. Those that have survived aren’t saying much other than ‘Hail HYDRA’, which gets increasingly dull.

He rubs his fingers into his temples and gathers his things to head out. He can work from home and maybe actually get something done, rather than having to break off every five minutes for a new person to yell at him.

The debriefs hadn’t been easy either. Every member of the team had to be subjected to stringent tests – lie detectors, stress tests, and psychological profiling – to try and work out if they were HYDRA in disguise. Agent Rogers hadn’t been amused, though Agent Barnes had been remarkably calm about the whole thing. But Phil’s seen Barnes’ scores. His heartbeat is rock steady throughout, his stress levels are low and he apparently profiles as a level-headed person and a well-rounded member of society with no major psychological issues. He could be on the brink of a breakdown and Coulson thinks the results would be the same.

Barnes has come a long way, though, which makes the problems ten times worse. Coulson knows that Rogers and Barnes are thinking about walking. He doesn’t blame them, but SHIELD’s not about to let them walk away easily. Barnes is still considered an unknown quantity and a potential threat. No one is entirely sure what HYDRA did to him. Rogers, on the other hand, is walking around with millions of dollars’ worth of SHIELD R&D in him. He _is_ SHIELD R &D. There’s no way SHIELD’s letting them go.

It’s been a long week. He needs a shower and a shave, and a meal that doesn’t come from the SHIELD canteen.

Lola’s recovering from a high-speed air chase, so he’s stuck with a SHIELD standard SUV, to make a bad week worse. He sighs and unlocks the door.

The passenger door opens as he slides in and someone joins him. He looks around to see a woman sitting facing him, one leg tucked up on the seat.

“Hello Phil,” she says pleasantly. “It’s been a while.”

Coulson knows the voice. He only heard it once before, with a bag over his head, but it’s stuck with him.

“The Black Widow,” he says, looking her up and down. She’s slight and red-haired – at the moment – and she holds herself with the grace and control of a ballet dancer, not surprising if the limited information they have about the Red Room programme is true. She smiles, but he can’t tell if it’s genuine or not, which is disturbing. He’s good at reading people.

“From the fact that I’m still breathing I infer that you’re here to talk,” he says, mentally assessing the locations of all his weapons.

Something shifts on the back seat and he glances up to look in the rearview mirror to see a blond man drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup and waving his fingers in greeting.

“Hawkeye, I presume,” Coulson says. It’s a good sign. There isn’t enough room to draw a bow properly in the back seat and while Hawkeye has been known to use other weapons, he definitely prefers his kills at a distance.

“Aw, Nat,” Hawkeye says. His accent is Midwest, Coulson notes. It could be put on, but he doesn’t think so. “He knows who I am.”

Coulson feels his blood pressure rocket up again. The use of the name is _not_ a good sign.

“Natasha Romanoff,” the Black Widow says. She’s still smiling and he can’t work out whether that’s unnerving or good, so he decides to just work with it.

“Pleased to meet you,” he says.

“Clint Barton,” is offered from the back seat. “Or the Amazing Hawkeye, but I’ll settle for Clint, or Barton if you prefer. Is SHIELD a last name basis kind of place?”

“Generally, yes,” Coulson replies. “But it really depends.”

“Names are more for the person saying them than the person responding to them,” the Widow – Romanoff – says. It’s a point that says a lot about her.

“Fair,” Barton agrees, before slurping his coffee loudly. “Are we making you nervous?” He asks. “Nat we weren’t gonna scare him.”

“You are far from the most intimidating person I’ve spoken to today,” Coulson says. It’s true of Barton, who radiates the good humour and foolishness of a joker, not a trained killer. But what was he expecting from someone who insists on working with a bow and arrow.

“Was it Bucky?” Barton asks. Interesting that he refers to Barnes by his nickname. It might be linked some way to the lines of communication he had kept opening up, another angle to explore. Coulson had argued that taking Barnes and Rogers off the case was a mistake. There had been a rapport there. “I bet it was. He’s got a glare that-“

“Fury,” Romanoff says, cutting him off and Coulson has the impression that she thinks Barton was going to say something incriminating. Their relationship is fascinating. Not what he’d expected at all. He can’t tell Romanoff’s angle, but there appears to be genuine affection in Hawkeye’s tone, and if her actions are anything to go by, she’s protective of him.

“Yeah. I can believe that. The man intimidates me too,” Barton says.

“I hate to interrupt,” Coulson says. “But I imagine there was a specific reason you broke into the SHIELD parking lot and my car in particular.”

“Oh yeah. The Plan,” Barton says. “Nat, tell him the plan.”

Romanoff shoots a look at the back seat that makes Phil’s blood run cold, and he’s not even the person it’s aimed at. Barton just grins and slurps his coffee again. He must be more intelligent than he’s pretending to be – Phil knows what he’s capable of – but he’s very good at playing the fool.

“We have something you want,” Romanoff says, pulling a USB drive from her pocket. “And we have a proposition.”

“You want to make a deal?” He asks, checking that he’s following correctly. It’s always best to make sure. There was one time in Belarus that he’d almost ended up burnt alive because he hadn’t confirmed.

“Yes,” Romanoff says.

Phil weighs up his options. He doesn’t know what it is that they’ve got, but they wouldn’t have risked this for anything small, nor would they have risked this unless there was something that SHIELD could grant them that they really needed. If they’re willing to give up their identities, this is serious.

*

It’s been two months since London. Bucky’s going slowly mad from the waiting. At least he’s not the only one looking at everyone in the corridors in suspicion now. It’s not paranoia anymore, it’s just common sense.

Clint hasn’t been in touch either. There have been no text messages, no phone calls, no postcards, nothing. He checks the phone regularly, even when his nightmares wake him in the middle of the night, and it stays stubbornly silent.

He wonders what they had to tell their client when they showed up without the data. He wonders whether the Widow – Natasha – is healing well. She had lost a lot of blood.

Steve’s been forcing him out of the apartment, convinced that if he’s left alone he’ll do something stupid. They’ve gone out for drinks, for runs, for anything Steve can think of. He always looks like he wants to say something as well, but he never does. Bucky’s grateful for his restraint, but at the same time he thinks that maybe he needs Steve to talk about it so that he can talk about it.

Coulson’s MIA, since the debrief that had ended with Steve yelling and Bucky crossing his arms and conveying exactly how capable he was of ripping a person’s spine out with his bare hands. He’d handed over the laptop and not heard a word back since.

Bucky’s got a bag packed. He looks at it every night. He could disappear easily enough, but it would be for good. He’d have to leave Steve, Becca and his ma. Maybe he’d find Clint, maybe he wouldn’t. He’s not sure if it’s a good idea or not.

Some days the bag looks more attractive than others.

Steve shows up at his door one morning as he’s looking at it where it's lying on his couch. Steve looks at it too.

“Coulson needs to see us,” Steve says. He doesn’t mention the bag.

Any number of scenarios run through Bucky’s head: SHIELD knows that he let Clint go, Coulson is HYDRA, they found something when they were doing their tests during the debriefing. None of them is good.

He reaches for the bag, but Steve’s hand grabs his arm. Bucky almost fights back.

“It’s going to work out,” Steve says. And Bucky must be the world’s biggest sucker, ‘cause he actually believes the idiot. “We’re going to see Coulson,” Steve says, so Bucky goes to see Coulson. He leaves the bag behind, gets into the car, and Steve drives. Bucky doesn’t talk, neither does Steve, but he does keep sneaking glances over, like a mixture between concern and amusement. Bucky doesn’t know what there is to be amused about.

Coulson calls for them to come in after Steve’s first knock. He’s sitting behind his desk, looking tired but not worried. Bucky would have thought the agency being infiltrated by HYDRA was worth a little more anxiety than that.

“Agent Rogers, Agent Barnes,” he says by way of greeting. “Please come in and take a seat.” Bucky has a feeling of déjà vu, taking him back to when they’d first been assigned the Hawkeye and Black Widow case, over a year ago. It feels longer.

“First of all,” Coulson says, lacing his fingers together on the desk in front of him. “Congratulations. You’re being promoted. Welcome to level eight.”

Bucky stares. Promotion had not been an option he’d considered. There’s a catch. There’s always a catch.

“Thank you, sir,” Steve says politely, but Bucky’s still trying to find the strings.

“Why?” he asks. Coulson looks like he’s been expecting the question.

“You’re being reassigned to a specialist task force,” he tells them.

“What’s the mission?” Steve asks, although he’s got a tilt to his mouth that Bucky would almost call a smile. The little shit knows more than he’s letting on.

“The arms dealing ring we discussed before, the one who ran the base in London, we recently gained access to a large number of their private files.”

“I thought the data from London was useless,” Bucky says. He’s been keeping his ears open.

“It was,” Coulson says. “Until we got our hands on data from several other databases from numerous other locations, all with multiple decryption keys. It was like a jigsaw puzzle. Once you put it together, you can see the picture.

“Officially, your mission is to use that data to track down and systematically take down the arms dealers.”

“Unofficially?” Steve asks.

“To use the information to find any further double agents within SHIELD and bring them to our attention,” Coulson says. “It will be an undercover mission within the agency itself. Secrecy is of vital importance. You will not discuss this mission outside of certain, dedicated, secure areas.”

“Who’s leading this task force?” Bucky asks. Though the mission sounds like something he would stick around for, he can’t imagine anyone Coulson could put in charge that he’d trust enough to follow, or even work with. But Coulson proves him wrong.

“Agent Rogers,” Coulson says, turning to Steve. “If he agrees.”

Steve actually looks surprised by that, for the first time today. Bucky is too. It’s the perfect play. Coulson, or Fury, or Hill, or whoever, chose the only person Bucky would willingly follow, but still…

“And the rest of the team? Or is it just us?” he asks.

“No,” Coulson replies. “There are two other members, although they are new agents. We thought it might be better that way. They have been fully vetted.”

“So had Rumlow,” Bucky points out. Coulson’s face loses its calm for a second, his mouth hardening, but the expression’s gone almost as soon as it appears.

“I think you’ll approve,” Coulson says.

Bucky very much doubts that. He crosses his arms and tries to ignore the way Steve’s trying and failing not to smile.

“I think I’ll wait until I actually meet ‘em,” he says. Steve makes a sound that might be a laugh. Bucky’s very tired of being the only person in the room not in on the joke. He should have just taken the bag weeks ago and got on a plane going anywhere but here.

There’s a brisk knock on the door.

“That’ll be them right now,” Coulson says before calling for the new arrivals to come in.

Bucky’s  expecting the worst – new agents, wide-eyed and over-awed, terrified of him and hero-worshipping Steve. He doesn’t turn to look, just keeps glaring at Coulson. Until a familiar voice makes him blink.

“The coffee machine in the break room doesn’t work. Do you think I can steal a new one?”

Bucky’s on his feet in an instant, turning to the door.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to steal things anymore,” the Black Widow says, giving Bucky a small smile and an exasperated eyeroll. “We’re the good guys now, remember?” Her smile turns into a pleased little smirk. Then she steps aside, leaving Bucky’s view of Clint clear.

He’s wearing the SHIELD uniform jacket and he looks ten times better than the last time Bucky saw him. The bags under his eyes have faded and there’s a lightness in his walk, even as he bemoans the lack of coffee.

The sight of him makes Bucky’s stomach lurch. He doesn’t know how he managed two months without seeing him. It’s making his brain spin a bit. He knows that Coulson’s standing behind him and Steve’s next to him, but he can’t drag his eyes away. He is so in-over-his-head gone on this guy, he’d be embarrassed if there were any room left for it.

The SHIELD uniform suits him, and Bucky lets himself look Clint up and down, drinking in the sight.

“Agent Barnes, Agent Rogers,” says the Widow – Natasha now, he supposes.

“Agent Romanoff,” Steve replies. Bucky’s head snaps round to look at him because _how does Steve know that name?_

“I see you two have already met,” Coulson says, continuing on like Bucky’s not making a massive fool out of himself, as though it isn’t obvious the way he’s staring at Clint like he’s starving for him.

“Agent Barnes, these are Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton, the other two members of the task force.”

Clint stretches his arms over his head with a wicked little grin and no hint of apology, then rolls his neck. Bucky swallows as he follows the movement with his eyes. He has to ball his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing him, just to prove that he’s actually real and not some cruel trick of his mind.

He doesn’t think he’s dreaming.

Bucky shoots a look over at Steve, who is beaming like he’s just solved world hunger, and _Agent_ Romanoff, who is still looking supremely smug about everything. He’d be offended, but Clint had said that she had a plan. And it seems like maybe he’s seeing what that plan was.

He looks back at Clint, who’s still smiling and still looking far too good to be real.

“Hi guys,” Clint says, his grin turning cheeky. Bucky has been played. He has been totally played. He doesn’t even feel bad about it. “Didja miss us?”


	12. Epilogue: Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 year later(ish)

In hindsight, Bucky probably shouldn’t have left the window open, but it had been stifling and the damn air conditioning was broken again.

He and Steve have opened a couple of beers and are debating the finer points of the night’s game when Bucky hears a slight _whoosh_ followed by a _thunk_ directly over his head and then looks up at a fountain of iridescent purple glitter, floating down to coat him like a layer of sparkling dust.

He glares at the arrow, now stuck in the ceiling, and holds up a finger to Steve.

“Don’t say anything, Rogers,” he warns, using his menacing voice. The one that makes grown men tremble and Clint push him up against walls to shove his tongue down his throat.

He looks over to see Steve fighting valiantly to keep a straight face. It doesn’t work.

“You look very… pretty,” Steve says, barely forcing the words out before the laughter overtakes him again. It subsides for a while, but every time he looks at Bucky again, it reignites, until Steve’s clutching his sides from the pain of laughing too much.

Bucky swipes a hand through his hair, stirring up a new cloud of glitter and only succeeding in coating his palm with sparkly purple as well. He grits his teeth and reminds himself that if he kills Clint then he’s not getting any sex tonight, and he’d probably also end up having to fight Natasha, which is not how he wants to spend his evening, especially since Clint is apparently back from his mission.

Bucky’s pretty sure the inside of his mouth is coated with glitter.

Steve finally gets himself under control and springs to his feet.

“I think that’s probably my cue to leave,” he says. He offers his hand, which Bucky uses to pull him into a tight, glittery hug.

When he lets go, Steve is covered in purple too. It’s very satisfying, as is the dismay on Steve’s face as he looks down at himself, and the glare that follows.

“It suits you,” Bucky tell him, smirking. Steve’s glare subsides.

“I deserved that,” he concedes, before heading for the door. “Have a good night, Buck.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Bucky tells him with a leer.

The door opens before Steve gets to it and Natasha and Clint walk in. They’re still in their gear, and there’s tiredness peering out from both their faces, but as soon as Clint catches sight of Bucky he’s grinning like a maniac, and even though Bucky’s still annoyed, he can’t help the way the grin makes him smile back, automatically. It’s practically pavlovian.

He scans them both for injuries, but there’s nothing too serious that he can see. He’ll give Clint a proper examination when the other two are gone.

“James,” Natasha says, raising an eyebrow. “You look good. Purple suits you.”

“I look good in anything,” Bucky replies, enjoying the eyeroll he receives in return.  “How’d the mission go?” he asks as Clint strips off his quiver and sets his bow down in its usual place.

“Successful,” she replies. “And Clint didn’t break any bones this time, so it’s a definite improvement on last time.”

“Well,” Steve says. “We should leave you two to it.” He holds his hand out to Clint. “It’s good to have you back.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, a little embarrassed, like he always is when Steve compliments him. Bucky’s not sure why, but Steve always affects him like that. He can take praise or complaints from anyone else like water off a duck’s back, but a word from Steve can make him uncomfortably embarrassed. Bucky’s tried telling him that Steve’s just good at hiding how much of a bastard he can be, but it hasn’t done any good.

“Stay out of trouble, you two,” Steve says as he opens the door.

“Aye aye, Captain,” Clint replies with a little salute. Steve shakes his head, but he’s smiling, and holds the door open for Natasha, who departs with another eyeroll, but also an indulgent smile.

The door shuts behind them and Bucky turns, reaching out to pull Clint closer. He smells like sweat, blood and gunfire. He definitely hasn’t had a chance to rest.

“A glitter arrow?” Bucky asks. Clint shrugs, wrapping his own arms around Bucky’s back.

“Well, you did say you’d look better in sparkly purple than I did,” he says, cocking his head to one side. “Gotta admit that I agree. You do pull it off better.”

“But glitter, Clint?” Bucky says. “It gets everywhere.” Clint’s grin slides into something more wicked.

“Really? Everywhere?” his hands slide down to palm at Bucky’s ass. “I might have to take a look at that.”

The first kiss is slow and steady, deepening a little, until Bucky pulls back to lean their foreheads together.

“When did you get back?” Bucky asks.

“Just now,” Clint replies, which is the answer Bucky was expecting.

“You haven’t been for debriefing yet?”

“Wanted to see you first,” Clint says, tilting down to kiss him again, a little needier this time, his hands groping a bit more.

“Coulson will have you suspended,” Bucky says when they pull apart again.

“Naw,” Clint tells him, pulling back to strip out of his top and tossing it to one side. There’s a livid purple bruise on his stomach, but other than that he seems unharmed. “I’m his favourite.”

“Steve’s his favourite,” Bucky says. Clint considers this and then nods.

“Yeah, but I’m his second favourite.”

“You’re delusional,” Bucky tells him. Clint’s argument is to kiss him again, fierce and aggressive this time. Bucky would argue more, but Clint is making an excellent point about more important things they could be doing than discussing this, and just why it’s a good thing that he’d skipped reporting in.

Clint doesn’t end up heading into the Triskelion to see Coulson until the next afternoon. He doesn’t get put on suspension, but he does get some funny looks when people notice the trail of purple glitter he leaves in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that.
> 
> Almost a year since I posted chapter 1, but who's counting.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with it. Thanks for all the comments and kudos. You are all wonderful (patient) people.


End file.
